Limbus, Inc. Book II

by Brett J. Talley

  “You went to school with him?”

  He shook his head. “Two years behind.”

  We crossed a side street and entered the park. Like most of the town of Pine Deep, the park was seedy, untended, and dark. Broken slats in the benches. Overflowing trash can. Beer bottles lying among the weeds. Indifferent lighting.

  “Nice place for a mugging,” I said to my new friend.

  He stopped and looked at me. “I know,” he said.

  Which is when I felt the icy mouth of a gun barrel press into the base of my skull.

  “Don’t try anything funny,” said a male voice. “And I’m pretty sure we both know what I mean by ‘funny.’”

  Chap. 31

  The killer stalked her because stalking was fun.

  One game was to see how close to the edge of the woods he could get without the hitchhiker seeing him. Then to make small, odd sounds so that she became aware of something. But unaware of what was in those shadowy woods.

  That game was fun.

  Then he changed his own rules. He ran ahead and stepped out of the woods. Very briefly. Just long enough for the girl to see him. A quick glance, then he was gone.

  The way her lithe young body stiffened was very appealing. She had long legs and long hair and tiny little breasts. She was maybe sixteen, but young for it. Bruises on her face. Running away from a heavy-handed father, perhaps.

  The girl stood there, uncertain, without a plan and without a direction, staring in the direction of the big, dark thing that had watched her from the road ahead.

  She turned around, considering the road she’d walked. It was empty and it lead back in a direction she could not go. Not if something had been bad enough to put her out alone on a road like this.

  The girl waited for almost five full minutes, looking at the road, looking under the trees, seeing nothing because the killer allowed her nothing to see. Not even when she was looking directly toward where he crouched. She had human eyes and they were so weak.

  He waited until she began walking again. Hesitantly at first, and then at a rapid clip. The girl wanted to be past this stretch of road.

  The killer circled around and came out of the woods behind her. He crept onto the asphalt and moved up behind her. Taking his time, waiting for that exquisite moment when the girl would inevitably turn to check behind her.

  That was a new game.

  He loved the way this one would end.

  Chap. 32

  I stood absolutely still.

  No matter how fast I can do the change, it’s not fast enough to dodge a bullet. Besides, little known fact about werewolves. Head shots? Pretty much does it. Head shots will pretty much flip the switch on everything. Vampires, zombies, me.

  So, no, I didn’t try anything funny.

  I stood there.

  “You carrying?” the voice asked.

  “Shoulder holster,” I told him.

  “Take it out with two fingers. Hand it to Antonio.”

  I did. Antonio took it like it was radioactive. He looked scared and nervous and embarrassed. If this was a mugging, it wasn’t following the right pattern.

  “What else?” asked the guy with the gun.

  “Blackjack. Rear pocket.”

  “Okay. Remove it the same way. Ditto for your wallet. Hand them to the kid.”

  “Got thirty bucks in my wallet,” I said, just to see how he’d react.

  “Cute. See that bench? Put your hands in your pants pockets and go sit down. Do it real slow and we’ll stay friends.”

  I did what he asked and as I turned to sit, I got my first look at him. He was an All-American jock type. Six-two or so. Blond hair, blue eyes, white smile. Looked healthy but there was something in his eyes. Like maybe there was something freaky going on behind them. Something crazy, something dangerous. Something very, very dangerous. I discreetly sniffed but his scent was one hundred percent human.

  Not a wolf, but definitely an alpha.

  “What’s the play?” I asked.

  He ignored me and spoke to Antonio. “You sure this guy’s playing for the same team as you?”

  Antonio paused, sniffed the air in my direction, paused again. “Pretty sure.”

  “Check his I.D.”

  The kid did that. “Sam Hunter,” he said, reading my driver’s license. “Oh, hey. He has a private investigator’s license.”

  “Read me the numbers.”

  He did.

  The guy with the gun held his Beretta 92F in a rock-steady hand. He looked at me, taking stock. “Okay, Mr. Hunter,” he said, “we’re going to have us a nice chat.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours. Who the hell are you?”

  “What, you don’t think this is a mugging?”

  I snorted.

  “What would you say if I told you I was a cop?”

  I shrugged. “You look the type. I used to be a cop.”

  “Where?”

  “Minneapolis.”

  “What happened?”

  “Got kicked out.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t play well with others.”

  “Other cops?”

  I shrugged again. “It’s possible a couple of perps got dented while resisting.”

  “What kind of perps? This a racial thing?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t like bullies. Not too crazy about guys who hurt women and kids.”

  I watched his eyes while I said that. You can tell a lot from the way a guy reacts. Dickheads tend to grin. Closet-abusers get self-righteous about due process. By-the-book cops are merely disapproving. Guys who’ve walked some dark streets tend to connect with you on a purely nonverbal level—but the connection is there. Even guys who are good poker players always have a tell in moments like that.

  This guy did.

  There was the tiniest thinning of his lips. Not a smile. Nothing like that. More like a predatory smile. There are different kinds of predators. There are the kinds who target the weak. And there are those with more of a Dexter vibe who don’t lose sleep if a child abuser has a hard time on the way to the station.

  “Any of this going to come up if I run a background check on you?”

  “My dismissal letter makes for quality reading,” I told him.

  “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t lower the gun. “New subject. What are you doing in Pine Deep?”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “Not a two-way conversation, Sparky. Answer the question.”

  “I’m here on a case.”

  “What case?”

  “A police case. I’m working with local law on a series of unexplained deaths.”

  “Who’s your contact here?”

  “The chief of police. Malcolm Crow.”

  Keeping his gun pointed at my forehead, he tapped his ear. “Bug, you get all this?”

  I didn’t hear anything, but the guy did. “Copy that.”

  “‘Bug’?” I asked. “You wearing a wire?”

  He ignored me and stood in an attitude of listening. I couldn’t see his earbud or mike. Had to be high-tech stuff if it was that well-concealed. Which changed my estimation of him from cop to some kind of federal agent. FBI or higher. Which made some sense if someone in the Justice Department was taking these deaths seriously. If there was any evidence to link the kills, then it made this a federal case.

  Didn’t explain why he was holding a gun to my head.

  “Okay,” he said, “thanks, Bug. Hit me with anything else you dig up.”

  The jock looked me up and down for a few moments longer, then he lowered his gun. Lowered it, not put it away.

  “You had a colorful career in the Cities,” he said. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge Hunter. How the fuck did you get hung with a name like that?”

  “My parents read a lot,” I said. “And they’re a little weird.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You got my background that fast?”

  “I h
ave good people.”

  “How long have you been tailing me?”

  “Since you left the Scarecrow.”

  “Why’d you pick me?”

  He nodded to Antonio. “My friend tagged you.”

  “He wearing a wire, too?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I changed tack. “You want to tell me who you are and why you pulled a gun on me?”

  He glanced around at the darkened trees, then shrugged and holstered his piece.

  “Joe Ledger,” he said.

  “FBI?”

  “Same league, different team.”

  “Care to tell me which team?”

  “Not really.” He grinned at me. Son of a bitch had great teeth. I wanted to punch them down his throat.

  “Can I have my gun and wallet back?”

  “Antonio,” said Ledger, “give the man his wallet.”

  The kid handed it to me and I slipped it into my pocket. I held my hand out for the gun.

  “Let’s pretend you don’t need it right now,” said Ledger.

  I lowered my hand.

  “Okay, Mr. Mysterious. How about you tell me what in the fuck is going on.”

  “You first,” he said, “why don’t you tell me why you’re here in Pine Deep.”

  “I already told you.”

  He gestured to the bench. “You gave me a headline, now give me the story.”

  We sat, the two of us. Antonio stood a dozen feet apart, my gun in his pocket. He fidgeted and looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

  I looked at Ledger. “The chief said there was someone asking questions around town. That’s you?”

  He shrugged.

  “If you’re already looking into these deaths, then you must know what’s going on. You know about me. Not about my background, but, you know…”

  “You get weird and fuzzy,” he said, “yeah, I know. Still borderline freaked out about it, but I know.”

  “Which means the government knows?”

  “Some parts of it do. Most don’t.”

  “Am I about to get myself onto some kind of watch list? You guys have an X-Files thing for real?”

  “X-Files is fiction, and it’s FBI,” he said. “I personally don’t give a rat’s hairy nuts about the things that go bump in the night unless those bumpy things have a political agenda.”

  “I don’t.”

  He touched his ear. “So I’m told. You’re a lapsed Independent. You haven’t voted since you left Minneapolis. Never been arrested at a rally. You’re not a person of interest in any way that matters to guys like me.”

  “So why this setup? You had Knick-Knack here lure me to where you could blindside me. Very slick, and I fell for it. But as your mysterious Bug must have told you, I’m not a player in anything political. I don’t even watch the debates. I think everyone in Washington needs a good foot up their ass, but I don’t have any aspirations to be the one doing the kicking. Is there any chance you’re going to stop being Mr. Cryptic and get to the fucking point?”

  Ledger laughed. “Fair enough. This clandestine shit always makes me feel like a jackass.”

  “See it from my side.”

  He nodded. “But this isn’t a discussion, Sam. This is me interrogating you. This is you cooperating without reservation. This is me—much as I hate to do it—waving the Patriot Act in your face and not having to play quid pro quo. Sorry, but life’s a bitch like that.”

  “Why don’t you just go ask the fucking chief of police?”

  “I will. But he’s lower priority. And, he’s kind of a dick,” said Ledger.

  “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. Besides, he’s an ordinary guy. You’re not. You’re definitely not, if Antonio is certain.”

  “Absolutely,” said Antonio. “He’s like me.”

  “I’m neither short nor black,” I said.

  We all laughed.

  Ledger said, “So, I want you to tell me why a werewolf private investigator—and I’m having a hard time saying those actual words—is in Pine Deep, Pennsylvania. I want to know what you know about the person or persons who committed these murders. I want to know if you have any connection to them, because I’m pretty damn sure you’re all members of the Hair Club for Weirdos. So, talk.”

  “I think this conversation would make more sense if we included Chief Crow,” I said.

  “I don’t.”

  A voice behind him said, “I do.”

  And there was the unmistakable sound of a pump shotgun being jacked.

  Chap. 33

  The girl turned around.

  She saw the killer.

  Of course she did. It was what she was meant to do.

  He was fifty feet behind her, moving on all fours, grinning with all his teeth.

  She screamed.

  She screamed so loudly.

  A shrill, piercing note that the killer was positive would live within his personal treasure trove of superb screams. It was a girl scream. A girl-woman scream. Filled with all of the dark imaginings of the child. And all of the understanding of the adult. It was as perfect as she was, this girl on the edge of womanhood. She, in all of her desperate, bruised beauty. Her defiled innocence. Her ripeness.

  She ran.

  Of course she ran.

  He would have been disappointed, crushed, if she had not.

  She dropped her backpack and her cheap little purse, and ran.

  He let her run.

  Another fifty feet. A hundred.

  Two hundred.

  And then he ran after.

  Chap. 34

  Joe Ledger turned. Slowly, without real concern.

  Malcolm Crow stood twenty feet behind him, a Remington pump snugged into his shoulder.

  Ledger smiled, got up, walked over, bent and picked up an unfired shell from where it had landed on the grass.

  “Much as I appreciate the dramatics of pumping the shotgun—it’s a real nut-twister—it’s done purely for effect. You wouldn’t have come out here without a shell being already in the breech. Which means you had to eject one to make your entrance.”

  He reached past the barrel and tucked the shell into the chief’s pocket.

  Crow sighed and lowered the gun.

  “It scares the piss out of most people,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Ledger, “I’m not saying it didn’t work on me. I’ll probably have a pee stain on my Joe Boxers. Just making an observation. You see that on TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They always do it on TV. Saw one episode of The Walking Dead where a guy racked his gun twice.”

  “Nice.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “Howdy, Chief Crow,” said Ledger.

  “Howdy, Duke.”

  I said, “Duke?”

  Crow nodded. “First time we met he introduced himself as Marion Morrison. John Wayne’s real name.”

  “Oh.”

  “Flashed an FBI badge.”

  Ledger shrugged. “It was convenient.”

  Crow pushed past him and walked over to Antonio. He held out a hand and waited as the kid looked for and received a nod from Ledger. He handed my gun to Crow, who exhaled through his nose and handed it to me.

  I considered how much fun it would be to pistol-whip Ledger, but frankly didn’t like my chances. Not without changing. He looked like a happy-go-lucky dumb jock, but there was something behind that façade that troubled me. I had the feeling he could turn mean as a snake if he wanted to. I didn’t want him to.

  Crow turned back to the agent. “We are going to have a frank conversation, Agent Whateveryournameis.”

  “Joe Ledger.”

  “Agent Ledger. Fine. We’re going to have a pow-wow and if I get even a whiff of obstruction—”

  “Or obfuscation,” I amended.

  “—I will kick your ass out of Pine Deep. And before you ask, yes I think it can be done and no I don’t give a cold shit what kind of federal juice you have or whic
h agency you belong to. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” said Ledger, though it was also clear he was amused.

  “Good. Let’s all go over to the Scarecrow.”

  “Not your office?”

  “No. The coffee sucks moose dick. Artie at the Scarecrow makes the best coffee in town.”

  I said, “You don’t mind that it’s a bar?”

  “Son,” he said, giving me a weary, pitying smile, “everyone I’ve ever met in this town drinks like a fish. Seeing it isn’t going to knock me off the wagon. This is Pine Deep. Besides, you two ass-clowns could use a few beers. Maybe it’ll help wash off the testosterone.”

  “I’m in,” I said.

  We all looked at Ledger.

  “First round’s on me.”

  Crow nodded to Antonio. “You want to do me a favor?”

  “Um…sure.”

  “You know Mike Sweeney?”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “Go find him. Tell him where we are.”

  Then Crow laid the barrel of his shotgun over his shoulder and nodded toward the lights of town. “Gentlemen, shall we—”

  Chap. 35

  The killer ran at half speed most of the way.

  He didn’t want to catch her.

  Yet.

  Where would the fun be in that?

  He loped along, watching her legs pump, watching her hair bob. Watching her.

  Aching for her.

  Hungering.

  In other times, in older times, he would have taken her a different way. Like he’d done in harbor towns throughout Southeast Asia. Like he’d done when crossing this country. Like he’d done more times than he could remember. Back then, when it was his old flesh that he wore and his weaker senses that he used, he still loved the chase, the catch, the tearing of clothes, the tearing of skin, the tearing of screams from young throats. Screams of fear. Screams of desperation. Screams of despair when they reached that critical moment when all fight and all flight were clearly failing. Screams of use. Screams of invasion. And screams filled with pleading as they tried to hold on to the bottom rung of life.

  That had been different. Good for what it was, but not what it was now.

  Now the killer wanted something different. Sex was fine, but it no longer thrilled him. It was too easy to get and too shallow a thing. No, what he wanted was the blood. The meat. The crack of bones between his teeth. The taste of all of the several parts that made up a human life. Oils of different pungencies. The flavor of skin on the hand and how different it was than the flavors of thigh and breast and hip and throat.