by C. F. Waller
“Before I came to work for Dr. Flynn,” he sighs, starting back to the car. “I barely believed it myself. Now,” he says and pauses. “I go to church as often as time permits.”
“This is preposterous,” I groan. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“If you don’t like the answers,” he frowns. “Stop asking the questions.”
I find this revelation stunning, but not helpful. Blake returns to the car and opens the driver’s door. Leaning in, he lowers the rear window a few inches and proceeds to have a conversation with Beatrix. I can’t decide if I should stop him or not. The sun is beating down on my head, sweat dripping slowly on my temple. My phone vibrates and I have to use both hands to dig it out of my pocket, my pants being so sweaty the pocket clings shut.
The picture I took of Rahnee flashes on the screen. I am half tempted to pick up and ask if Decker is there, but decide not to give in to petty jealously. Standing there in the sun, I run my palm over the screen of my phone and try to decide my next move. I could just let them go and head for the hills. Another choice might be to call Rahnee and see if we can trade them for our own lives, but I am not sure you can negotiate with Angels or Demons.
“Getting in the a/c,” Blake hollers as he slips into the front seat.
I have a momentary fear he will take off with the car, but realize there isn’t any reason for him to cross me. We are likewise at a loss for a direction to travel. The horn on the car suddenly blares, breaking the virtual silence of the desert. It stops and then blares again briefly.
“What now?” I groan, heading over to the car.
Before pulling the door open, I see blood on Blake’s white shirt through the windshield. His head lolls to the side lazily, a bit of spittle hanging from his lower lip. I make a half circle around the car and come away confident Blake is dead. After some time to ponder it, I open the driver’s door slowly. It’s the only car here so I am going to need to sort this out.
On the front seat, Blake is sitting as if he were resting. In the center of his chest is a red blotch, the blood starting to stain the shirt, leaving a trail down to his belt. A look at the horn shows me why it went off. There are two puncture marks in the center of the steering wheel. Glancing back I see there are also two in the blood soaked area of his shirt.
Taking a step back so I can see in the backseat, I have a nice view of Beatrix. She’s smiling as she lifts her right arm, a short sword coming out of her sleeve, blood running down the blade to her white frilly cuff. Apparently the cops removed the clear plastic barrier between the front and back seat, leaving only a mesh fence, more like tiny chain link. Beatrix’s blade must be narrow enough to fit in between the links, allowing her to impale Blake from the back seat.
“Batter up,” she shouts, her voice almost jubilant. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“You realize that you’re trapped in a car sitting in the desert,” I lecture, annoyed that I have to deal with this childishness. “If it runs out of gas you two roast to death inside.”
“Hop in and lets find out,” she taunts me.
“Or I could stay right here and watch you cook.”
“He hasn’t spent much time in the desert,” Dorian tells her.
“It’s hot now, but it’s going to get real cold in a few hours. I think I’ll take my chances in here,” she grins.
“This is a full on hot mess,” I complain, pulling out my phone.
I stare at Rahnee’s number and try to talk myself into calling her. Unable to do so, I try my work numbers again, several times each. No one answers and all the message boxes are full. Letting my arm drop, my phone dangling between two fingers, I see Beatrix grinning at me.
“You’re not improving your situation,” I scoff.
“One thing about us you might not understand short-timer,” she growls through the gap where the window is slightly down. “I’ve lived my life and a dozen more I didn’t deserve. I’m ready to meet my maker. The question is,” she pauses and breaks into a smile. “Are you?”
“No, but don’t let me keep you,” I shout in frustration, reaching in and shutting off the car.
When I do this, she thrusts the blade through Blake, the tip barley missing my hand. Standing up, I dangle the keys off my index finger and swing them back and forth in front of her window. Frowning, she pulls the blade back and out of sight. A staring contest begins, her brown eyes drilling into me. When I finally blink she seems pleased.
“This could not get any worse,” I moan.
“Your assessment shows a startling lack of imagination,” Dorian lectures, shaking his head. “I predict this situation will get far worse before it gets better.
“You’re mad,” I sigh, glaring at Beatrix. “Stark raving mad.”
She shrugs and drives her blade through the seat and into Blake, causing the horn to blow. Instead of pulling it back, she remains leaning forward which keeps the horn on. We stare through the dirty glass for over a minute. A slight pounding grows in my temple from the blaring horn, causing me to turn away. Once I do, the horn stops, but I don’t look back.
Reaching a hand into my jacket pocket, I come back with a book of matches from the hotel in New Orleans. This gives me an idea. Without speaking, I remove Blake from the front seat, dragging him out into the sand. From the look on Beatrix’s face, she’s thinking I might get in. Instead, I tear off a strip of Blake’s shirt and roll it up into a ball, leaving a long tail like the one on a kite. I pop the trunk and come back with an old whiplash CB antenna, which may have been on this car at some point in the past.
With Beatrix and Dorian watching, I fold over the end of the antenna, hooking the rag on it, and shove it down the filler hole into the gas tank. When I pull it back the tattered wad of Blake’s shirt is soaked with gasoline. Tossing the antenna away, I drop the balled up end of the cloth into the tank and leave the long tail hanging out on the fender. Satisfied with my work, I take out the matches and light one, holding it up for her to see.
“Do it,” she practically screams. “See if I care.”
“Dying in the sun,” I suggest. “That’s bad, but burning to death in a car. Even with all of your life experience, that’s got to sound like a crappy way to go out.”
“Worse before it gets better,” Dorian moans.
“Burn the car and you’re stuck out here to die,” she shouts, sounding somewhat less belligerent since I lit the match.
Blowing out the match, I toss it down and pull out my cell phone. I hold it up, just far enough from the window for her to see.
“Two bars,” I shrug. “It’s not great, but unlike you, after the car fire dies down, I can order a pizza.”
“Your ride might wonder why you’re standing next to a car with two charred corpses in the backseat,” she remarks.
“Not the type of people I am going to call,” I lecture. “My friends will bring pizza and shovels.”
There’s a long pause and then she holds up her arm in the window. I watch the blade retract into her sleeve, blood staining her dress and cuff in a morbid looking Lizzy Borden sort of image. She puts both hands up in the cramped back seat in a surrender gesture.
“Thought you might re-think your position,” I whisper to myself.
Chapter Sixteen
Arron Wessker
It’s a long drive to the airstrip where Decker and Rahnee left their plane. I drive while the two of them make phone calls and discuss potential destinations. Halfway to the airstrip the air-conditioning on the Volvo begins to fail. The air vents push warm air into the car, irritating Rahnee no end. We drive the last half hour with the windows down sweating into the seats.
Rahnee and Decker have decided to lay low in hopes they won’t come for just us. Apparently there was a prior security breach, if that’s what this is, and she survived by disappearing. I want to find Dorian and Bee, but staying with Rahnee means there is at least a chance I won’t be cut down by whatever is chasing us. One popular theory being tossed about, is it that
they are chasing only Dorian and Bee and either won’t come after us or will be killed by Shelly, who seems to be picking them off one at a time.
The radio stations are awash in stories about the shootout in Laughlin, even though there isn’t much to say about it. No bodies, no security video, just a bunch of people who heard shots and saw cars flee the scene. I would also imagine they collected a mountain of shell casings, but the news is mum on that. I have a random thought about my finger prints being on one of the shell casings, but realize the guns were not the same ones from the hotel room. How many guns does a person actually need I ponder with Rahnee in mind.
The last five miles to the airstrip are basically a one lane gravel road. There isn’t any security and Rahnee directs me to a fancy jet parked alone at the far end of the runway. I am rolling along slowly when Rahnee clamps her hand down on my shoulder roughly.
“Someone’s there,” she blurts out. “Stop, stop the car.”
From a couple of hundred yards away the silhouette of a lone figure stands next to the plane. I stop the car and wait for instructions. Rahnee and Decker quibble over who it might be, but when they can’t agree she arms herself with both of the oversized hand cannons she got from Decker. She instructs me to stop well short of the plane, which I do. She gets out and I am ordered to stay in the car and keep it running. Not feeling like being part of another gun fight, I agree and sit with my foot on the brake.
The figure is a woman, who seems to be alone. Scanning the tarmac, I don’t see another car, leaving me to wonder how she got here. She looks like a clothing store mannequin, motionless with her arms crossed over her chest as she watches Rahnee approach. She’s tall and slender with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Silver straight slacks stop at the ankles above black leather high heels. They are the sort that has black straps running over the top of her ankle, a type I dislike. A style I refer to as the Spartacus shoe. A silver cropped suit jacket over a sheer gold blouse twinkles in the bright sun. She seems to be unarmed, but you never know about these things.
She takes a few steps closer, tilting her oversize sunglasses up on top of her head revealing olive skin and green eyes. Her eyes can be seen at a distance, almost glowing in their sockets. It’s clearly a woman, but without the hint of a bosom, the only clues are the clothes and her hourglass waistline. Her appearance is oddly androgynous, while remaining attractive. She takes a few steps toward us. At the point when she gets within twenty feet, Rahnee raises one gun, a second dangling in her left hand at her hip.
“I’m listening,” Rahnee barks, the gun outstretched. “Make it good.”
“Tzohorayim Tovim,” she smiles, making a slight bow as she speaks.
“Ani yakhol laazor lekha,” Rahnee replies, gun still pointed.
“Say what,” I mutter.
“It’s Hebrew,” Decker whispers from the backseat. “Asked her how we can help her.”
Seeming to hear us, the woman glances in my direction and clears her throat.
“I have a proposition for you,” she declares, switching to English. “I mean you no harm.”
“I get that a lot,” Rahnee sighs. “Give me something to go on here? Which side are you on?”
“There are so many sides,” she frowns, looking down and shaking her head, before resetting her gaze on Rahnee. “I am unarmed. Would it be possible to have a conversation that doesn’t involve you pointing your firearm in my face?”
It strikes me that the woman looks very calm. This must not be the first time she’s had a gun pointed at her. Rahnee lowers the gun and pauses to consider the situation. After a moment she nods at Decker, who tells me to turn off the car. Decker goes over and exchanges whispers with Rahnee, before walking a circle around the plane. When he’s certain there is no one hiding, he goes into the plane for several minutes before appearing on the top of the stairs shrugging. It seems the woman is here without back-up. Still wearing a distrustful look, Rahnee relents.
“What is it you want?”
“I want you to chase down Sindri for me,” she admits matter-of-factly.
“Sindri?” Rahnee repeats looking confused. “Who’s that?”
“Shelly,” I blurt out, having opened the door and stepped out. “She told us Sindri was her given name.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” Rahnee scowls. “She’s the only one of them I like.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” the woman recites. “I find this to be true in most cases. I am willing to make it worth your while.”
“How much?” Rahnee questions. “What’s the offer?”
“No money,” the woman frowns. “You don’t need money.”
“Pray tell, what do you think we need?”
“Help staying alive,” she grins. “Kill the tiny demon and I can give you that.”
“I don’t do kids,” Rahnee declares, hand tightening on her guns making me nervous.
“She doesn’t qualify,” the woman smirks. “She’s more than a thousand years old.”
“Looks like a kid to me,” Rahnee shrugs. “And I don’t do kids.”
“Yes, you mentioned that already.”
“Or dogs,” Rahnee adds.
“Who said anything about dogs? the strange woman balks.
“Why do you want to hurt Shelly,” I shout, stepping closer to the pair squaring off.
“She has several of my people and I want them back,” she insists, turning her head in my direction and narrowing her eyes to better see me.
Hearing this, Rahnee takes several steps back, bringing one gun up. The woman shakes her head and frowns, taking a deep annoyed breath.
“You’re Rhea?” I ask, trying to defuse the situation.
“Yes,” she grins, seeming to forget Rahnee and the gun pointed at her. “Did Sindri use that name?”
“She did,” I nod, taking a step forward. “Something about putting your husband in a box.”
“That she did,” Rhea nods in agreement, almost laughing. “But that’s been somewhat of a blessing.”
“She’s one of them,” Rahnee shouts. “Step away Arron.”
“Put that down,” I demand, stepping between the two of them. “Hear her out and see what she’s offering. Assuming she is what you’re afraid of, you can’t shoot her anyway.”
“Don’t count on that,” Rahnee grumbles, slowly lowering her new gun.
After a brief pause to calm everyone down, I step out from between them and wait. No one seems to want to go first, so I do.
“Shelly figured out how to capture your guys,” I start. “Box them so to speak.”
“Yes, I didn’t know what was going on until last night when I tagged along and saw what was happening.”
“You were in Laughlin?” Rahnee balks.
“Watching from afar so to speak. Over the past five years some of my people have come up missing. It’s getting to be a real problem.”
“Guys are missing for five years and you’re just now looking into it?” Rahnee frowns. “Glad I don’t work for you.”
“Five years is a flick of an eyelash to me,” Rhea replies dismissively. “But now I know where they have been going. Sending only one at a time meant no one was left to warn me, but now I have witnessed the tiny demon’s strategy.”
“Shelly said she dumped them in the ocean,” I divulge. “Told me she put them down deep where you wouldn’t be able to get them back.”
“I’m aware. Last night I got my hands on one of her people. He told me she was dropping them into the Pacific.”
“So you can’t get them back.” Rahnee chuckles. “Or, you could grab your swim fins.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it’s not the ones at the bottom of the ocean I’m interested in. Her helper told me the last two were still here. They must be stored locally until she has time to dispose of them. I’d like to get those two back.”
“That’s fair, except they were trying to kill us,” I state. “Letting them out doesn’t seem to be in our best interes
t.”
“You say that like you’re not dead already,” Rhea purrs and then tilts her head to one side watching me for a moment as if I was a house pet.
This statement stalls the conversation. It’s sobering and drives home the precariousness of our predicament. Rahnee and I share a glance, but she seems intent on gunplay. Her knuckles white as they grip her weapon.
“Now would be a good time to tell us what you’re offering in return for us doing as you ask.” Decker interjects.
“Spare you,” she announces. “You can go back to your lives safe in the knowledge that no one is hunting you.”
“So, her life for ours?” Rahnee qualifies, defining the offer as she wiggles the gun in Rhea’s direction.
“That seems to be your solution to everything,” Rhea waves a hand at the gun. “I’d prefer you not ruin this outfit. It’s new.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but so far you’re zero for two at trying to kill me,” Rahnee taunts. “Maybe I’m not that worried about you.”
“You’re mistaken if you think the little monster will turn up and save you again. She is using his friends,” she asserts, pointing at me. “As bait, not you. Without the element of surprise, that you don’t have, and the magic box parlor trick which you don’t understand, you’re sitting ducks.”
“She has a point,” Decker jumps in, nodding at Rhea.
“So you’re saying what?” I ask. “We chase down Beatrix and Dorian, then wait for Shelly.”
“Sindri,” Rhea interrupts and corrects me. “Nordic demon.”
“Right, Sindri,” Decker grumbles. “And when she pops up to save them, we stop her?”
“Exactly,” Rhea agrees. “We don’t need her alive as her people will know where my men are.”
“No kids,” Rahnee mutters.
“She won’t show herself for us,” Decker suggests. “She waits for your kind to show up. For this to work we need a true immortal.”
“Got any spares?” Rahnee jokes.
“Very few,” Rhea glares at her. “But don’t worry. I’ll provide you with a prize she won’t be able to resist.”
