HARBINGER Deliver Us to Evil

by Ralston, Duncan

  "That's right. I'm working for him now."

  His friend gave him a mistrustful look. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with him because of Fox Wentworth?"

  "That was before."

  "Before what? The car? The flashy duds?"

  Marcus tugged on the collar of his polo. "They're not that flashy."

  "I don't know, Marcus…" Reyes shook his head. "I've known you a long time. This just doesn't seem like you."

  "Maybe the me you know was tired of livin like a goddamn alley rat," Marcus snapped.

  Reyes stepped back timidly.

  "Come on, man. Come for a ride. Just around the block."

  His old friend seemed genuinely unhappy when he shook his head. "No, I don't think so, Marcus."

  The cell phone in the pocket of his borrowed jeans buzzed. Marcus slipped it out of his pocket and stuck it in the holder on the dash.

  He'd never been much of a cell phone guy—the "smartphone" craze really hadn't taken off until after he'd been living on the streets a few years, but he seemed to pick it up easily.

  They're expecting you in two hours, the text said, along with directions to a town called Monte Verde. When he thumbed the message the destination popped up on a map.

  "I gotta go," Marcus said.

  Reyes nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you probably should."

  "Yo, c'mon, Reyes," Buck said over his shoulder.

  Rejected by his friends twice in one day stung, but Marcus decided it was smarter to play it off. Some of these men targeted weakness, and sooner or later he was sure he'd be right back here with them. "All right, man. I'll catch you round then."

  Reyes returned to the men huddled near the doors of the Mission. "Hey, I think that pizza guy's watching you."

  Marcus looked over his shoulder. A few car-lengths back the beat-up red hatchback with a Gringo's Pizza car topper idled. The driver turned lowered his head as Marcus looked, obscuring his face with the red trucker hat.

  Mildly paranoid, Marcus shot Reyes a wave and peeled away from the curb. Back in traffic he seemed to have shaken the Gringo's Pizza driver—probably the guy had just stopped to text someone—and the drive south along the ocean gave him time to consider Mr. Morales's strange rules.

  "There are only two rules, Marcus. Rule one: Don't fly, not under any circumstances."

  He could easily live with that one, despite missing the hell out of being up in the air. After his last flight he didn't think he could bring himself to get on a plane again, let alone pilot one.

  He supposed this rule must have something to do with airport security, that one or more of the items inside the briefcases was either dangerous or illegal. Morales had already assured him it wasn't drugs—which was good, as Marcus wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He'd seen too many good people brought to their knees by coke, meth, crack cocaine, Oxies, you name it.

  He supposed it could be some sort of weapon but Morales didn't seem like the gunrunner type. If the contents started ticking or beeping he'd throw it out the window and forget he'd ever heard the name Americo Morales.

  "Rule two: Never, ever open the briefcases. I cannot stress this rule enough."

  Easy enough, since he hadn't had the lock codes for the previous briefcase Morales had left him he didn't suspect he'd be given them for the rest. Considering the spiel Morales had provided him this morning, the "single most important enterprise mankind has ever envisioned" bullshit, he could be transporting government secrets, evidence of alien landings. It could even be proof of 9/11 conspiracies, or a second Kennedy shooter.

  Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, right. I'm the black Mulder."

  On the Southern Freeway Marcus saw the pizza delivery car a few cars back in the rearview. Again the guy's head dipped, hidden by his red hat. Traffic wasn't bad but it was too thick for evasive driving. If it slowed any more the guy could get out of his car and walk up if he wanted to.

  Marcus zipped into a tight space in the fast lane. He saw the pizza delivery guy's blinker flick on to follow him.

  "Son of a—"

  The GPS marker blinked. He saw the turnoff to Route 1 ahead.

  The pizza guy swung into the fast lane. Only two cars between them.

  Not much road left until the off ramp.

  Marcus leap-frogged into the middle lane without signaling and then the next. The cars behind him honked, braking.

  "Sorry, fellas."

  On the off ramp he checked the rearview. The Gringo's Pizza car hadn't been able to follow him—if it ever really had been. He saw the car to his ten o'clock, caught in traffic heading toward San Jose.

  "Getting paranoid," he muttered to himself. He wasn't sure whether he'd crossed the line from healthy distrust (his justifiable fear of cops, his wariness of people with money) into full-blown paranoia but better to be safe than dead.

  God only knew what was inside the briefcase.

  Could it be worth killing for?

  "Maybe it's the Gringo's Pizza secret recipe," he said, and his laughter relieved the tension he'd been feeling ever since Reyes had pointed out the car that may or may not have been tailing him.

  The Pacific Coast Highway was wide open, miles and miles of sunny road along the ocean. He flicked on the radio, and America la-la-la-ed through "A Horse With No Name" as he eased the pedal to the floor.

  The purr of the engine vibrated his entire body through the seat and for a minute he felt like if the road remained straight long enough and he could reach the right speed he might just lift off the ground.

  He reached for the glovebox. When he opened it the bottle of Buzzard's Black Label he'd gone back and purchased at the gas station toppled onto the passenger seat.

  "Just a little bit," he said, and brought the bottle into his lap.

  Marcus had drank just enough to remain functioning by the time he entered the small beach community of Monte Verde. After years of unchecked alcoholism, driving would have been more dangerous for those around him if he hadn't drank. With his shakes under control he could concentrate on the road ahead and not when he was going to get his next fix.

  Passing through the small downtown he got several brief curious looks from white retirees walking hand in hand down the promenade. There were no buildings taller than three stories, and doors leading into expensive-looking clothing stores stood wide open. People ate on café patios in the sun under wide-brimmed hats. The women had long deeply tanned legs with high-heels and the men wore loose open-collared shirts and loafers with no socks.

  Just beyond the downtown area stood houses that wouldn't have been out of place on Mulholland or in Beverly Hills, their grounds tended by Mexican immigrants.

  Eventually the town retreated in the rearview and Marcus drove the Jag into the open country again, following the blip on the cell phone secured to the dash. Green rolling hills made him think of golf courses and cemeteries. "Don't Fear the Reaper" came on the radio but the station broke up with static as he went under a bridge and when he came out again on the other side the music didn't return.

  He flicked off the radio and concentrated on getting to his destination. It had taken a little less than two hours and with any luck he'd be a bit early.

  Following the red dot on the GPS Marcus slowed to take a turn and easing the car between stone gateposts covered in thick green moss flagging the gravel drive. Hanging from one was a sign with red lettering on black: AMBROSIA. With its straw roof the cottage or whatever it was in the shallow valley beyond made Marcus think of The Three Little Pigs.

  A white van stood in the small lot but otherwise the place appeared empty. Smoke drifted into the sunny haze reminding him of the cigarettes his dad had always left in ashtray to smolder down to a long curl of ash.

  Marcus parked the Jag alongside the van and got out. Something smelled delicious but he couldn't place it. Some kind of fragrant, savory meat. He didn't generally eat much with his steady diet of booze, only enough to stay alive. Since he hadn't drank as much today he seemed to be hungrier t
han normal.

  Maybe have a light lunch.

  He ignored the knocker and pushed open the door.

  The smells hit him immediately. Spices and herbs, sweet and salty. A chef's station lay at the center of the room, surrounded by round tables set out a U shape. The walls were covered in all sorts of knick-knacks, making it look like a bit like a museum with no real purpose or sense of harmony. Beside a ship's wheel was a blank space where from the shape of the outline in the paint a pitchfork once hung.

  From a doorway at the far end of the restaurant came the sound of a knife clacking against a wood cutting surface.

  "Hello?"

  The cutting stopped.

  "Yes, hello!"

  The man had an accent—something European, likely Swiss or German. Marcus approached the doorway. A sink ran. As Marcus reached the kitchen a large red-faced man in chef's whites dabbled with blood stepped out, drying his hands. He smiled as his eyes met Marcus's, and he extended a hand.

  "You must be Marcus."

  He shook Marcus's hand vigorously, his palm rough.

  "That's me. I'm sorry, Americo didn't tell me your name."

  "Jörg."

  "George?"

  "Jörg. It is German. Please." He directed Marcus to a table. "Have a seat and I'll retrieve your attaché."

  Marcus sat. His stomach rumbled.

  From the kitchen Jörg called out, "Would you care for something to eat, Mr. Mills?"

  The cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Another message from Morales:

  Wentworth Casino Hotel, 9PM check-in.

  "I'm good, thanks."

  He thumbed the message. Directions to the Las Vegas Strip popped up on the GPS. A seven-hour drive and it was nearing two.

  "Vegas," he muttered. "Great."

  At least he wasn't flying. He'd always disliked landing at McCarran at night with all the dazzling lights of the city making it difficult to see properly due to glare. He also wasn't a fan of the extra long runways required for takeoff in the extreme heat.

  Jörg returned to his side, setting a black leather briefcase on the table. "Are you sure you won't join me for lunch?"

  "It smells terrific, Jörg, but duty calls."

  Marcus stood and stuck out a hand. The chef shook it.

  "A shame. The invitation stands, should you find yourself out this way again. Any friend of Americo Morales is a most welcome guest at Ambrosia."

  "Thank you." As Marcus raised the briefcase from the table something solid rattled inside. "Should it be making that noise?"

  "Alas, I am not the person to ask. Like yourself, I am merely an intermediary."

  "Well thank you again, Jörg. I'll certainly stop by if I'm in the neighborhood."

  "Please do. We would love to have you for dinner."

  Marcus headed for the door, letting the odd phrasing hang, chalking it up to poor translation. When he turned at the door the chef was still watching him with a wide smile, his beefy arms folded over his stomach.

  Outside a short guy with a gray buzzcut and a red tracksuit with white stripes stood behind a beat-to-shit purple Volvo parked alongside the Jag, rooting through the trunk. He reminded Marcus of a gym teacher or the lost white member of Run-D.M.C. The man pulled out a camouflaged duffel bag from the trunk, dropped it onto the gravel and slammed the door.

  He startled when he spotted Marcus.

  "You're new."

  Marcus looked around to see if the man was addressing him. "I don't work here."

  "You didn't eat here, did you?"

  "Nossir. Too rich for my blood, I'd imagine."

  "Can't say I blame you." The man studied him. "Just lurking then, are you?"

  Marcus raised the briefcase. "Picking up a delivery."

  There were bullet hole stickers on the Volvo's rear window and a Garfield stuck to it on the inside. The back seat was full of storage boxes. One of them was open and seemed to be filled with MISSING posters of animals and children.

  Marcus eyed the man with suspicion. The man returned the look.

  He broke eye contact with a brief smile and bent to lug the duffel up onto the trunk. "Well, don't let me keep you. I've got work to get to myself."

  Marcus nodded. He moved around the Volvo, laid the briefcase in the back of the Jag and got in behind the wheel.

  "Nice ride," the man said, and Marcus thought he must have expected him to be driving the van instead. "What kind of deliveries does a man have to make to drive a monster like that?"

  "I guess it'd be rude to say that's none of your business."

  The man grinned. "Not rude at all. Rude of me to ask, frankly."

  Marcus started the car.

  The man came over and gripped the passenger doorframe. "Listen to that baby purr, would you?"

  "Are you a salesman, Mister…?"

  "Ames. Buddy Ames." The man smirked. "I'm an exterminator."

  "They got a bug problem?"

  "Scavengers," the man said. "Big ones."

  "Better take care of that then." Marcus dropped the transmission into reverse and tapped the gas. The man let go of the door as the car reversed. He stepped out in front of the car as it pulled forward, and Marcus had to step on the brakes.

  "I've got pretty good instincts," the man said, "and my gut tells me our paths will cross again."

  "You got some sort of learning disability or something, man?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Well good. Then it's okay if I say our paths cross again and I'll run your ass down in the street."

  The man chuckled and stepped out of the way. "I look forward to that."

  Marcus stepped on the gas, grinding up gravel under the wheels. As he took the rise back to the main road he glanced in the rearview and saw the man watching his progress up the road.

  "White people," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

  In the backseat the briefcase fell. He heard the object inside tumble over the low purr of the engine and wondered again if it was worth killing for.

  Buddy Ames. Something about the name rubbed Marcus the wrong way.

  Who exactly is he aiming for?

  4 – MAGIC WORDS

  MARCUS TURNED THE Jag onto the strip at a few minutes past eight. He'd made great time with not a lot of traffic and opening it up on the long straightaways through the Mojave Desert. With the top down the cacti and scrub brush and dirt went by in a blur, the mountain peaks in the distance never seeming to get any closer until he was suddenly in the middle of them, and they appeared much smaller than they had miles and miles back.

  So much open space unnerved him. He hadn't been out of the city in eight years, and to suddenly be out in the middle of nowhere with zero signs of civilization made him feel oddly boxed in.

  A faux castle in the desert called Whiskey Pete's Hotel & Casino came up on his left and his thoughts returned to the bottle he'd tucked back in the glovebox.

  He'd picked up another small bottle of Buzzard's in Bakersfield before the real desperation of nothingness set in and promised himself he'd make it last until the Calfornia border. Somehow, despite the boring drive and the oppressive weight of infinite blue above, when he crossed through into Nevada he still had a few swigs left.

  He gripped the wheel tighter, holding back the shakes. "Only half an hour more, Marcus. You got this."

  Traffic increased as he left Primm on the Veterans' Memorial Highway heading on an almost straight shot of low mountains and darkening purple sky all the way to Vegas.

  Billboards became more frequent for casinos, country singers and wedding rings.

  Only in Vegas, he thought.

  Traffic got heavier at West Cactus Avenue and worse as the desert beige hotels came up on the right. He took the next turnoff, and after a few more turns got onto Dean Martin Drive where Wentworth Casino Hotel stood.

  It was ten to nine. Marcus found a parking space easily as the hotel didn't seem too packed, being off the Strip. He zipped up the hardtop, grabbed the briefcase from the b
ack, and headed for the bright lobby.

  The young woman behind the desk looked him up and down, her goth makeup and chalk-pale skin a stark contrast to the loose-fitting, disheveled red and tangerine uniform with a silver Wentworth nametag on her lapel that said FABRIZIO.

  "Welcome to Wentworth Casino Hotel. How can I assist you today?" Her tone was slightly robotic, as was the smile she flashed him. She seemed flushed and out of breath.

  "Fabrizio, that's an interesting name."

  The woman followed his gaze to the nametag, and clued in. "Oh, this isn't mine. I uh, forgot mine at home." She obscured the tag with a hand, the nails painted black. "I'm Layla."

  "Layla. Like the song."

  She looked confused. Probably too young to know it, Marcus thought. "There should a reservation for me under Mills, Marcus. And that is my real name."

  Layla smiled briefly as if she didn't get the joke and glanced at the computer screen. "Okay, Mr. Mills, we have you in room 208. I'll just need your cellphone."

  He felt a flicker of paranoia. "My phone?"

  "We have a digital keyless entry system that works using your cell phone."

  Marcus shrugged and dug the phone out of his pocket. He handed the phone to her. She fiddled with it for a moment before handing it back. "There. All you have to do is press 'unlock' when you're within a few feet from your door."

  "What a world we live in," Marcus said sarcastically.

  "Indeed. It's a connecting room—I hope that's okay. There's a room safe for your briefcase as well," she added, nodding toward it on the floor at his feet.

  "Long as it's got a bed and a bathroom, I'm happy."

  "Oh yes, all of our rooms have beds."

  Marcus chuckled to himself. Obviously she didn't get the joke.

  Layla slid a pamphlet across the counter, and stacked some casino chips on it. "Here are your complimentary chips. The casino is right through the double doors. Our headlining act tonight is Billy Wonders."

  "Billy Wonders, is that Stevie's brother?"

  She blinked.

  "Stevie Wonder? You know? 'I Just Called to Say I Love You'?"

  "Billy Wonders is an internationally renowned magician."

  "Okay then. Hey, don't you think it's kinda strange they call this place Wentworth Casino? Like when the bigwigs were coming up with names, didn't anyone realize how bad that sounds?"