The town itself was a late model, from another era. You didn’t need to know anything else about it to know that. It wore its age like a timeless shadow. Tamara wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if, at some point in its history, it had seen horses and gunfights. She tried to imagine them, imagine anything, really, to keep her mind off the water that was pouring over her body.
He was bathing her with a green rubber hose from a pumping station that looked to be abandoned. But, still, some folks in the distance could see him doing it, and every single one of them looked away and went about their business, even though she was almost naked, her breasts exposed beneath the sun. He’d only allowed her to keep her panties on because she’d begun to put up a fight when he touched them. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The master wants you clean for the sacrifice, but when he’s done with you I’ll have you anyway, you know?”
Tamara said nothing.
“It’s part of the deal. I do what I do, and then I get to do you!” And, thrilled with himself for the word play, he giggled like a demented fifth grader.
She stood her ground and refused to acknowledge him as the cold water spilled over her sweaty, filthy skin and pooled beneath her feet.
“Don’t worry,” he added with a sigh, “you might be lucky. You might already be dead by the time I get to do it.”
More laughter. He really cracked himself up.
She closed her eyes, feeling helpless and afraid.
If Kyle and The Gray Angel were dead, then she had no choice now. Her fate was in her own hands. In hindsight, maybe it was never meant to go down any other way.
As the water spilled down her neck and over her breasts, her nipples, responding to the coolness, grew hard, and she panicked, afraid that he would see them and take it the wrong way, thinking somehow that she was enjoying this. Unable to will the hardness away, she folded her arms over her chest and rubbed the water over the neck and face, to make as if she were washing, which was hard to do with just water.
As if reading her mind, he suddenly thrust a bar of Lava soap in front of her face.
It was like a rock made of sand paper that scratched away her skin as the lather built in tight, round circles. He noticed her chest but wasn’t leering, at least not yet. She played along, not covering up entirely, which she felt would anger him, and her “shower” continued uninterrupted. Twice more she looked down the road, at a woman coming out of a tiny market with two bags of groceries, and another woman who was leaning against a red Pontiac and staring her way. Surely, they would help. They were women too and—
Incredibly? Each of them, in time, looked coldly away.
“Do you know why the master picked this place?” Troy said softly into her ear.
She shook her head as she rubbed the bar of soap through her greasy, matted hair, feeling bits of dry and brittle scab from the beatings she took come neatly off her scalp.
“Because it’s a town full of secrets, Tamara. Piled high. Dark secrets.”
She felt her lips trembling but held them still as he continued.
“No one here will help you because it might mean calling attention to themselves, and their secrets. The things they’ve done, or that have been done to them.”
She kept her eyes closed as the soapsuds spilled off her head and down her face, sure beyond any doubt that if she opened her eyes the soap was so harsh it would scratch away her pupils, and prayed. Jesus. Please help me. I don’t know what to do.
“In most places, the ‘shift’ would take place. But it’s not necessary here. Do you know what that is? The shift?”
Tamara shook her head, and then forced herself to speak. Some silence was good, but too much of it was submissive. “No. I don’t.”
“It’s how I got many of them, the other girls, I mean. There is a space between here and there—my ‘there’ or that stupid, weak ‘there’ that you worship.”
“And?”
“And it stops things. Things like time and reality. It freezes them, so that the forces of the universe that really matter, that really influence things, can go about their business.”
Tamara kept scrubbing, buying time. “What business?”
“Why, influencing all of our shitty little lives, that’s what.” He sighed as he turned the hose from a stream to a spray by folding his thumb over the opening. “We have no control over our lives.”
She let the spray come over her and rinse her clean, even ducking her head beneath it and pulling her fingers through her hair a few times, allowing it to feel good for a few seconds, because it did. It felt good and it also felt… refreshing. Energy was filling the bones and muscles that were tight and weak only moments before.
“I don’t agree with that,” she said before she could stop herself.
He slapped her across the face, the spray of water now targeted off to the side of her as she yelped and stepped back.
“What did you say?” he murmured through clenched teeth.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
He brought the back of his hand up, threatening to strike her again. “Answer me!”
“We do have a say, in who we are and what we do,” Tamara said in a voice so firm it felt almost impossible at a moment like this; somehow it was composed and self-confident.
When his hand came down again towards her face, she reached up and grabbed his wrist with both her hands, the simple act of self-defense, of at last making a stand, all that she needed to bring herself alive. Alive and determined. She dug three of her broken and jagged nails as deep as she could into his flesh.
The look of shock that came over his face was the happiest thing she’d seen in a long time.
That happiness rose over her, hope unleashed, like a bird in flight. She waited for his bodyguards to appear, or that thing from the mirror. Nothing.
Then it dawned on her. It had been a good half-hour since they’d left Kyle and The Gray Angel behind, but his entourage had made no appearances since, which meant they either were still engaged in the battle or they’d lost it. Either way, it was good news for Tamara.
“You’re alone, Troy. Aren’t you?”
She released the grip of her right hand from Troy’s wrist, balled it up into a fist, and took another shot at the base of his nose, like she had that fateful day in the foyer at her house, when she’d barely missed.
This time, though, she didn’t miss. The bone crumpled up like tin foil, releasing a sharp crack into the air.
Troy screamed and stumbled backwards, yanking his wrist from her grip as he brought both hands up to his face, dropping the hose to the ground, the water streaming from it not nearly as strong as the gush of blood now pouring down his face. This was it: her moment. It was one on one, and as she stepped forwards and kicked him square in the balls, Tamara Fasano really liked her chances.
He screamed again and let out a deep moan as he dropped to his knees. He tried to scream at her but the blood was evidently pouring in both directions, out his nostrils but also down the back of his throat, because his words were garbled and bubbly.
Looking around, Tamara was stunned to see the townspeople, still no more than a hundred yards away, simply going about their business. Watching, yes, but minding their own, even as an almost completely naked woman fought for her life. Their secrets must be pretty bad, she thought as she picked up the hose and began to beat Troy the Monster relentlessly with it, her anger loose and running wild, the metal end hitting his scalp and gouging into it.
He lunged at her and slapped an open hand across her side and stomach, leaving a bloody handprint. But between his nose and his groin, he was done for. He fell forwards again, his right hand barely keeping him from falling face first into a deep hole in the road right in front of him, which was now nearly full with water.
It was her best, maybe her only, chance.
Stepping behind him, Tamara looped the hose around the front of his neck and straddled his back. Sitting on him, she watched as his right hand slipped in the mud and hi
s left hand abandoned his nose to grasp at the hose as she ruthlessly crisscrossed it behind his neck and began pulling it tight with all of her strength. Every ounce of it. Every drop.
He gagged and tried to cough but she had him flush. His right hand gave way as he fell forwards into the puddle.
Tears filled her eyes. Tears of joy. Tears of horror. Tears of pure, unadulterated rage, as she pulled up and down on the hose viciously, screaming at him, smashing his face into the puddle as his arms flailed out sideways and tried to reach backwards, all to no avail.
Then, finally, he weakened, and she forced his face deep into the puddle, shifting her weight slightly forwards on his back for more leverage, and held him firmly in place, his entire head now almost submerged in the water, his screams gurgling as his mouth filled with water, and with absolutely no hesitation, she realized that she was going to let him drown to death.
As she did she thought of how she’d been praying to Jesus, just a little while ago, for help. Surely, Christ would never approve of this, of her killing him like this. Regret and sorrow filled her heart. She tightened the hose and gritted her teeth. No. She could do it. It would be okay. She couldn’t be blamed for finishing him after all that he’d done to her.
Then again, what if that’s what all that the monsters of the world ever wanted: to pass their evil on to the next person?
By murdering him, ruthlessly like this, with Christ front and center in her mind right now, she would never be the same again.
He was completely unconscious. Limp, his face slightly blue and swollen.
She loosened her grip and checked his pulse. He was still alive.
Fine. Let him face his master, that thing in the mirror, for failing like this. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it wouldn’t be on her.
She dropped the hose, grabbed her pants and top off a nearby post and ran in her underwear to the car. As she drove off in the Camaro, leaving a trail of dust and dirt behind her, she cried out with joy and relief.
She’d done it. She was free.
PARKER AND NAPOLEON took off on a dead run down the street with barely a glance between them, winding side by side down the sidewalk, splitting up to make their way around pedestrians or cars pulling into the driveways of the various businesses along Los Feliz Boulevard.
The early morning traffic was fairly heavy, but as they made their way to the intersection it was obvious to Parker that Ben not only had a good head start on them, he was also one hell of a fast runner. He was nowhere in sight. The traffic light worked against them too, turning red just as they reached the corner, unleashing a good fifty cars on either side of the road, drivers making their way to the freeway on-ramps nearby.
It was obvious that Napoleon was going to try to time the gaps, but it was suicide. Too many cars came off the line like typical Angelinos, as if they were in Fast and Furious 28, willing to risk life and limb to make it somewhere a whole two minutes earlier.
Looking up the hill, Parker finally saw him. Ben was halfway to the motel on a dead sprint.
“She has my gun!” Napoleon yelled to Parker as he backed off from the traffic almost all the way to the sidewalk again.
“Okay,” Parker replied, as he looked up the street at the oncoming traffic again. The side nearest them looked hopeful. “We got a gap coming up!”
It wasn’t a big one, but it was big enough to at least get them across all three lanes to the center divider, if they really hustled. To Parker’s surprise Napoleon was off on a dead run right as a black Tesla whizzed by them. He was old, but he could still scoot.
Parker took off a few steps behind him and was promptly laid into by a chorus of honks by the next grouping of cars that were approaching. One of them, a yellow Prius, almost hit him. “Assholes!” the driver screamed at them, his voice trailing behind the car as it went past.
The center divider held them at bay for another five seconds, which felt like five minutes, as the little figure of Ben reached the driveway of the motel up on the hill and ran into it. The light was beginning to change but he and Napoleon, again seeming to read each other’s minds, bolted through a narrow gap in the traffic, forcing a black Mercedes to slam on his brakes momentarily as another burst of car horns ushered them to the other side of the road.
Napoleon looked worried, his face strained as he began to run up the hill.
“What is it?” Parker shouted, pulling up next to Napoleon and matching his stride.
“I use a nine,” Napoleon grunted grimly between strides.
“And?”
“That’s a big gun for such a small woman.”
It was true. Parker thought of a standard nine millimeter hand gun and of Trudy’s small hands. She would need both of them to fire it. She was a tough cookie, but recoil was recoil, and physics were physics. Parker had never thought she’d have to defend herself alone. He’d left her with Napoleon. And that’s when it dawned on him why Napoleon was so stressed; it was he who had left her all alone with the children, not Parker, which meant he was going to blame himself forever if this didn’t end well.
Parker had seen his partner suffer enough. That wasn’t going to happen. No way.
Opening his stride, Parker gave it all he had, blowing ahead of Napoleon and up the hill, his arms pumping vigorously in time to his legs as his mind went tactical.
The problem was that Ben would have the advantage. Enraged as he was, dangerous as he was, he could just storm the room. Kick in the door, grab one of the kids, or he could—
Parker forced himself to stop imagining the negatives. Just get there, dumb shit. Fast as you can.
The driveway grew steadily closer, but as always in desperate situations, in war or in crime, things seemed to play tricks on you. Like some prop in an Outer Limits episode, the motel seemed to keep moving farther away the closer Parker got to it.
He glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to see Napoleon had nearly matched him step for step.
We’ll get there. If Trudy can hold him at bay just long enough…
It was right when they reached the driveway that the first shot rang out.
Then another. And another.
They ran into the motel complex just in time to hear Trudy scream, a feral, murderous sound, followed by a fourth shot, and then one more.
As they approached the balcony, Ben stumbled backwards out of the broken door of the motel room, his hands clutching his chest. Somewhere along the way he’d shed his suit jacket, and now blood spots were blooming like roses across the back of his pristine white dress shirt. He held up one hand for a second, pleadingly, towards someone in the room. It had to be Trudy.
It’s okay. She’s okay. It’s self-defense right now. That’s all. Plain and simple.
When the next four shots rang out, screams began to echo through the complex as other guests ran out onto the balcony or entryway below.
Three of the four shots caught Ben in the upper torso; the last one clipped his neck and shattered a light fixture on the balcony across the way. He was propelled backwards, his lower back hitting the balcony railing at just the right angle to lift his feet and flip him up and over. He fell with a sickening thud to the ground below, his head cracking like a coconut on the letter “R” in the word “Reserved” painted on the parking spot below.
More screams.
So much for self-defense, Parker thought. And a lot of people saw this.
“Jesus Christ,” Parker muttered as he came to a stop.
Napoleon pulled up next to him. “More like Mother Mary,” he said between gasps before adding, “I guess I was wrong about her being too small to handle the gun, huh?”
Trudy came to view in the doorway, her forehead bleeding a bit, her eyes wide with shock.
When she finally looked down and saw Parker below it was with a look of utter relief and fear. Tough girl, yes. But she still began to cry.
Parker wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her that it was okay to cry.
You always do af
ter your first kill.
CHAPTER 26
AS THE BLUE PULSED through Kyle’s broken right wrist the pain was excruciating, but it had to be done. The Gray Man was losing his battle. It was obvious that he’d been assigned the three toughest of the group. The Nazi men were strong and vicious, each holding one of The Gray Man’s upper arms with one hand as they beat on his body, ribs, stomach and throat in alternating waves and with stunning accuracy.
The salamander woman, meanwhile, seemed to be relishing his torture, tightening her tail around The Gray Man’s face as his hands struggled to free himself from her grip. His hat had been knocked to the ground and was being stepped on by his own two feet as he stumbled backwards and forwards, swinging his body from side to side in an effort to shake her loose.
Meanwhile, the coyote creatures had continued wave after wave of bites and tears at Kyle’s body. He would spin one off just long enough for the other to sink his teeth into his thigh, spin that one off just as the other returned to bite his waist. They were no coyotes of this world. They moved way too fast.
As the blue pulsed into his arms they again attempted to attack him there, but by blind luck, the unthinkable happened; he fell on to his knees. This was what he’d been trying to avoid all along, being dragged down to their level. Down here they could get at his face and throat. But, instead, it finally got him a bit of distance, for just a split second, and that was all he needed to bring his hands up and release the power within them. The aim of his right hand, being in such bad shape, was poor, but the blast still clipped one of them in the shin, blowing the limb to pieces as the demon teetered for a moment, still trying to advance on three legs, before it fell sideways and began to thrash around.
The aim of Kyle’s left hand had been true, though; it caught the other one dead center in the stomach, its guts blowing out before it fell over dead.
Upon seeing his partner go down, the remaining creature snarled, righted himself and began a wobbly charge.
Kyle tried to retreat on his haunches but it was no use. The creature bit into his foot and started crawling up his leg. Without really thinking, Kyle reached out, grabbed it on each side of its head and, as its fangs snapped, into the empty air, Kyle pulsed the blue from his one hand to the other, straight through the creature’s head, leaving behind the stump of its neck pierced by what was left of its spine, a sharp white bone charred black around the tip.
One Plus One (The Millionth Trilogy Book 3) Page 23
