The Dead Pools
Page 9
I plucked at my athame and raised it above the bowl praying that I had enough strength left to close the portal. The strain from the Walk was worse than I’d imagined, but surely there was some reserve left somewhere that I could still tap. I refused to believe that everything I’d done could be swept away by some tedious bitch with a sickle in her hand.
“Dark mother, hear me now—
You know how celebrity deaths always come in threes? It’s a sort of synchronicity, bad luck or misfortune all bound together in a crazy loop. Psychiatrists explain it away as apophenia and shake their heads. It’s just our brains trying to find order in chaos, picking up patterns where none exist. That may be all well and good but take it from me, it’s all bullshit. Some things do show up in threes.
For me, the really deep shit always wears the same face. Just when things couldn’t possibly get any worse Manx shows up to guarantee that it will. He’s my personal little triple-headed karmic boot in the ass. And just like clockwork, he stepped through my door.
Saying that Manx and I have a history is a bit like saying there was a spot of trouble between Capone and Elliot Ness. Manx led the Witch Hunters that captured me at the Canadian border. Half the reason I accepted the Long Ticket was to spite his ass and he’d never gotten over it. Last year he’d charged me with espionage over the fiasco in Peru. If I hadn’t been cleared by a psychotic angel disguised as an Investigator I’d still be rotting in a military jail.
Manx wanted nothing more than to toss me in a hole somewhere and throw away the key. As soon as I heard that the OSS were involved with Ortiz, I should have known Manx would come snooping around. It’s just the way my perverse life works.
“Drop the knife, Julie!”
Back in the camps having the first name Julian wasn’t a big deal. The families try and keep the old names alive, but it’s more than a little prissy for the Company. All my official documents use my Craft name: Thorn; though I might be a better fighter if they didn’t. I suspect I would have spent more time on hand to hand combat drills if Mac or Ramirez had known it. Manx wouldn’t have been the only one twisting my name into an insult.
His sense of timing hadn’t improved over the years. If anything, it’d gotten worse. I didn’t have time to consider what he saw from his perspective. Any moment now the Santa Muerte was going to figure how to break through my scrying bowl and then things were going to get dicey fast. Whatever the arrogant bastard wanted; he’d have to wait.
“Don’t move!” I shouted before turning back to the bowl and confirming the worst. The dark stain I’d spotted earlier had spread throughout the bowl turning the water an inky black. The water was in a full-fledged boil, the bubbles piling atop each other and dangerously close to spilling over the sides. I only had seconds before the Santa Muerte broke free.
“I’m warning you Julie, drop the knife or I drop you!”
Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t have time for this shit! I whirled back and saw that Manx had moved further into my room. Not only was he blissfully unaware that he stood inches from the edge of the salt circle, but he held an ugly .45 pointed directly at my head. Even if the asshole missed, which was doubtful at such close range, the bullet would break the circle.
Right now, the Santa Muerte was bound within my circles along with me. It was hardly an ideal situation, but better than if she was no longer constrained. On the other hand, I had no doubt that Manx would drop the hammer any second and splatter my brains across my room. The fact that she’d probably tear him a new asshole seconds after she was freed was little solace. I wouldn’t get to see it happen.
For a brief moment I didn’t know which was worse, the gibbering horror trying to climb from my scrying bowl or Manx’s cold eyes examining me. There was something similar about them both. I dropped the knife.
Actually, it slipped. I’d pushed myself well beyond my limits and reintegrating my spirit and body burned what energy was left. I felt as if I’d spent the night on a whirly-gig, bouncing up and down, spun around until I had no center. My fingers spasmed and the knife tumbled to the floor. I followed it down when the shakes reached my knees.
I don’t think I blacked out, but the next several seconds are tumbled together and turned inside-out. I hit the ground hard. I remember my head bouncing off the cement and my mouth filling with blood where I nearly bit through my tongue. On the other side of the circle there was a cry and a thump and a great deal of shouting.
For a moment I panicked, afraid that I’d been shot, but the circles still held. I could feel their cold fire burning inches from my head. I’d been lucky that I’d dropped straight down and my flailing arms hadn’t crossed the barrier. Moments later I didn’t feel lucky as my eyes focused on the dark cloud boiling above me.
She was coming. Somehow the Santa Muerte found her way through the bowl. I struggled to sit up, careful that my hands didn’t accidentally cross the edge of the nearest circle and scrambled for my athame. The cloud hadn’t gained any definition yet. There still might be time to shut this down.
Grabbing the edge of the altar I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet and got my first good look at my room. On the other side of the circles two bodies were thrashing about, throwing punches and crashing into what little furniture I had. Still dazed from the fall it took a moment to decipher what was happening.
Mac stood frozen in my doorway, but it was Ramirez tossing punches around like thunderbolts. They must have heard Manx yelling and come running. Thank the gods Ramirez was a shoot first and ask questions later sort of guy. I had no doubt that without his interference Manx would have taken the shot whether or not I dropped the knife. Besides, I wasn’t the only one Manx locked up last year.
At any other time, I would have made a bowl of popcorn and settled back to enjoy the show. Hell, I would have sold tickets. Watching Manx get the snot beat out of him was one of my favorite daydreams, but the look of horror stitched across Mac’s face reminded me that something worse was growing behind me.
I spun back around. In the few seconds I’d been distracted the Santa Muerte had made tremendous progress. The black cloud was no longer an amorphous mass hovering over my altar. It was quickly gaining definition, condensing into the all too familiar horror I’d hoped I’d left behind. A black lace shawl was draped over her fleshless skull, while her bony hands gripped the edge of the bowl, wriggling and straining like a cork stuck in the neck of a bottle.
The time for magickal defenses, for banishments and seals had come and gone. All I had left was the athame in my hands. I struck out at her, slashing at her straining figure, but she bent back upon herself, avoiding the blade.
That spoke volumes. A physical weapon couldn’t injure a spirit, but my athame was more than a simple blade. I’d poured a year of my life into its construction. Countless invocations and bindings were layered into the steel when I consecrated it to Hecate. It was more than a simple knife. It was a relic of my faith.
I struck again and again, swiping and thrusting at her growing figure. Each time she danced away from the blade, flickering like a dark flame bending against the breeze. Despite the melee, I hadn’t blocked her progress, only slowed it. Evan as she backed away from the knife, she pulled more of herself from the bowl. Once free of its tether, she’d bring the fight to me and I doubted my little knife would be much use against her bony scythe.
With my last chances rapidly slipping away I made a last desperate move. When all else fails, try the unexpected. Whispering a prayer to Hecate, I drove against the towering figure. Aiming my blade upwards towards where her heart would be, I stepped under the sweep of her arms. She pulled back as I expected and then I sprang my trap.
I flipped the blade downwards in mid strike and drove it down into the heart of the bowl. When the blade’s tip pierced the ceramic, the bowl shattered, peppering the air in a hail of fragments. For an excruciating moment the Santa Muerte’s eyes locked with mine before she dived towards the escaping water and disappeared from sight.
Mac ran over and caught me before I hit the floor. I raised my arms weakly in protest, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t have stopped him. I was too drained from the Walk and the ensuing fight. He carried me to my bed and wrapped me in a blanket before he started yelling.
I opened my eyes and confirmed that I wasn’t the object of his wrath. Manx and Ramirez were still rolling across my floor throwing punches, unaware or uncaring that the danger had passed. I smiled weakly and wished for popcorn.
“God damn it Ramirez! Stop!” Mac bellowed.
Ramirez withdrew, kicking at Manx as he stood. “He was going to break the circle, Sarge. I didn’t have a choice.”
Manx came up last, looking much worse for wear. He was wearing a torn and bloody uniform, without any insignia. The OSS thought they disguised their guys this way, but on a base wearing a sterile uniform you might as well be holding a sign saying, ‘I’m a spook.’
“I want that man arrested,” Manx sputtered. “Do you hear me? I want him charged right along with that witch!”
Before Mac could respond, Ramirez was back in the fray. “Charged? You little fuck didn’t I beat you hard enough? I saved your God damn life. All of us!”
Manx didn’t back down either. “That witch was raising a demon and don’t you deny it! I would have shot him and stopped it, but this crazy wetback—
Manx never saw it coming. Ramirez threw a right hook catching him under his jaw. Manx dropped to the floor like a jellyfish on land.
Ramirez grinned and shook his hand. “Goddamn that felt good.”
“Corporal, you’re confined to quarters,” Mac snapped.
“But—
“Just do it. Now!”
Ramirez glared at him for a moment and then stiffened, throwing Mac a salute. “Sir, yes Sir, Sergeant.” He turned and then stormed from my room.
“Mac, he’s right,” I said. “If Manx had broken the circle, he would have let the Santa Muerte out.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Private? I sent Ramirez away for his own good. I’m going to have enough trouble cleaning this whole mess up without him making things worse. Now what the hell were you doing?”
I quickly filled Mac in on the Ghost Walk while Manx was moaning on the floor. When I mentioned my fears about Manx and the OSS, Mac interrupted. “You know this spook?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “Ramirez and me both. He’s the OSS officer that took us into Peru while you were hospitalized last year. He’s the reason we got charged when the mission blew, claimed we’d done it deliberately.”
“Well that explains Ramirez’s reaction, but I thought you were a little more stable.”
“Manx was the son of a bitch that hunted me for two years after I fled the Camps. He killed the girl—
“And you killed three of my men!” Manx pulled himself up off the floor and spit a stream of blood before running a finger through his mouth, checking his teeth. “You ever tell anyone about that, Julie?”
He could see from Mac’s expression that I hadn’t. “You killed three marshals serving a warrant; killed them in cold blood.”
“That’s a fucking lie and you know it!”
Manx shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Doesn’t matter what I know or think for that matter. That’s what your record shows. Three marshals dead at the border and another guard savaged beyond recognition in the Camps. You were a killer then and you’re a killer now, Julie. And I’m going to make sure you hang for it.”
“No one’s getting hanged—
“We’ll see about that Sergeant,” Manx snarled. “I want a full Board of Inquiry assembled and I want both those men brought up on charges!”
Mac glanced over, giving Manx one of the coldest looks I’d ever seen. “You can stuff your Board up your ass. This is Shadow Company and we take care of our own.”
Chapter 14
Fort Benning, Sunday 17:30
Thorn’s Quarters
If there ain’t no rest for the wicked, then I was guilty already. It felt like I’d just closed my eyes when Mac shook me awake. At least he was gentle about it, but that only added to my concern. Mac wasn’t the cuddly type.
He wasn’t much for small talk either. “What’s missing from your file?”
“Whoa, hold up there Sarge.” I was swaying on the edge of my bed, just getting used to the fact that my feet were touching solid ground. Processing information beyond the most basic sensory data was still a few minutes away. “Give me a moment to wake up, please.”
Mac grunted and thrust a steaming cup of black tar into my hands. “We’ve got no time for that Thorn. I’ve got thirty minutes to get you ready for the show. Drink.”
I wasn’t steady enough to stand, but I took a cautious sip. Even the sludge they pour at the canteen couldn’t mask the antiseptic sting of the stims. Mac must have raided a medic’s stores and dumped a full bottle of jag into my cup. The first sip kicked over my heart, the next gulp sent it racing.
“Holy crap,” I sputtered, “thought you were against this sorta shit.”
“Captain’s orders,” Mac replied. “We’ve got to know right now if there’s anything missing from your file.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
I was awake. Holy crap I was awake. The sun rose in my chest and peeked out through my eyes. Everything around me was crisp and steel-edged like an etching. Octane rolled through my veins as I shot to my feet.
“Maybe you’ve had enough,” Mac said reaching for the cup.
I tossed the rest down in a single gulp. “No thanks,” I said. “Now what’s this about my file?”
“Is there anything missing from it that might explain the OSS hostility?” Mac asked.
“I have no idea,” I said moving towards my closet. I pulled out a fresh uniform and threw it on the bed. Fresh socks and underwear quickly followed and a hairbrush too. It’s important to look your best I thought as I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead. Did I have time for a shower? “I’ve never read it. Got no idea what’s in there or not.”
I decided against the shower and started getting dressed. The Captain’s office . . . were we going to the Captain’s office? I had no idea where we were going, but I didn’t want to be late. Late is never a good option in the Army.
“Look Mac, all you’ve got to know is that Manx has a three-mile grudge he’s swinging. He ran me down along the Canadian line. I was a hundred yards from the border and pop, pop, pop. She was only ten years old Mac, just like Autumn. Just like my sister. She was ten and they blew her away.”
I don’t know when I started crying, but the tears were running down my face, dripping onto my uniform. “Her family trusted me Mac, trusted me to get her across the border. They gave me their child and I failed them.”
The jag brought everything up, all the emotions I’d locked away for so long. I couldn’t shut it down once the dam broke. “So yeah, you want to know if I killed those men. Sure did. I summoned a storm with Emily’s blood wet on my hands. I brought it down on all of them. I won’t lie and tell you I didn’t know what I was doing, because I did and I didn’t care, still don’t. It wasn’t murder. It was justice.”
“And then they gave you the ticket . . .
“Yeah, Manx never saw that coming,” I laughed. “He was sure I was done after that and so was I. I made my peace with it, but you know the Army. All they saw was a potential weapon.”
I tore off my shirt, left it crumpled on the bed and wiped my eyes. Blew my nose. Damn drugs, the emotions faded just as quickly as they came. Everything was artificial; they robbed me of the
chance to hold onto the hurt, smothered it with the immediacy of the next moment.
I pulled another shirt from the closet and buttoned it up before sitting on the bed to lace up my boots. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“It fills in some of the blanks where Manx is concerned,” Mac said after a moment. “I didn’t know, Thorn. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks Mac. After a while . . . I don’t know . . . seems like I can never get past that day . . . is there something else you were hoping to find?”
“The men you killed that day, do you remember their names?”
“Yes: Greene, Lopez, and Smith. Why?”
Mac shook his head. “It was a long shot. The Captain was hoping that there might be a connection between you and the new DDO, Graham Chamberlain.”
“What does the Deputy Director of Operations have to do with me?” I asked.
“That’s what we can’t figure out, but he’s here and he’s demanded a seat on your tribunal.”
#
My hearing was held in a long low building on the edge of Officer’s Country that the Army occasionally used for press conferences. It was all glass and light, looking more modern office than military. The armed MP’s strategically stationed throughout the wood and chrome paneled lobby belied the mantle of blandness the Army worked so hard to construct.
Mac checked us in at a reception desk where an overly cheerful Corporal directed us down a featureless hall. The courtroom itself was easy to find, it was the only one that had a half dozen MPs stationed outside. Mac directed me to a bench outside the room and then told me to wait while he slipped inside.
Hurry up and wait. It was typical Army. I sat on the bench ignoring the hostile glares of the MP’s while beyond them angry voices argued over my fate. The MP’s didn’t bother me; they’re bred to look hostile. It was the angry voices on the other side of the door that wormed their way under my skin. After what seemed like hours, Mac pushed open the door and waved me inside.