For an answer, she got another image: Anna, getting to her feet in a dark room. Behind her, a couple of people Karyn didn’t recognize. There was something odd about the image, and it took her a moment to figure it out—ghostly traces framed it. Her nose and eyelashes, eyebrows at the very top edge. This was happening, she thought. This was what she’d be seeing, if she were seeing normally.
“What’s going on?” she asked again.
She couldn’t hear the answers, not clearly. There were words, lost in an overlapping flood of sounds that matched the scene of the demolition before her eyes. Anna said something, though, and she didn’t look happy. She was baring her teeth and breathing heavily through her mouth. From experience, Karyn took that as a very bad sign.
Rough hands grabbed her at the elbows and pulled her up. Anna, too. Okay, they were in some shit, then. These people weren’t friendly. Somebody pushed her forward—not hard enough to make her stumble, but enough to get her moving.
She dropped her hand to her side, not wanting to draw attention to it. In her mind’s eye, the splinter was burning down, just like the last one. In a minute or two, she’d be dropped back into her shifting world of useless information, incapable of doing anything to help herself, let alone Anna or the others. The demon’s offer—for surely the creature in her head was a demon—was ugly, but not as ugly as sitting, powerless, while Christ knew what happened to her friends. It occurred to her that she might never actually find out what happened.
Okay. What do I have to do?
No response. Either it couldn’t hear her thoughts, or it was screwing with her.
“Fine,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice low enough to avoid being overheard. “What do I have to do?”
The next image was a single, very clear instruction.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked.
The old man came over and, at least in the image, put a hand on Karyn’s shoulder. He had the expression of a tired orderly in the psycho ward. Karyn shrugged him off and took a step backward.
“Chill,” Karyn said.
The old guy gave her a worried look, but he stayed back. The procession started moving again.
“Is this for real?” Karyn asked quietly.
The old guy was gone. In his place, a willowy woman in a blue gown. She nodded once, then vanished.
“Great,” Karyn muttered. She watched as she walked through one room, then the next. Anna kept glancing over at her, trying to make eye contact, maybe trying to convey some kind of message.
How much time did she have?
There was a millennia-long tradition of suffering being a spiritual thing, or good for the soul, or what have you. Righteous in some way. Karyn thought of monks flogging or starving themselves, of Puritans and Victorians condemning sex as sinful while they went around with their libidos cranked to eleven, dreaming up crazy Freudian crap because all that pent-up energy needed somewhere to go. She thought of the Inquisition, and witch trials, and those modern-day motherfuckers who thought that the poor could join the righteous if they’d just suffer a little more.
A long tradition. An enormous tradition and, as far as she could tell, one of pure bullshit. A way to protect the hierarchy, nothing more. Pain was pain, privation was also pain, and little good came from either, most of the time. Fetishizing it sickened her. When somebody said the pain was for your own good, nine times out of ten your pain was for their good. Words to live by.
So here she was. The instructions had been very clear. This was a small thing, but would likely hurt more than anything she’d experienced in her life aside from taking half a blast of buckshot a few months back. She was sweating, she realized, and her heart was pounding in her temples.
Take this cup from my lips, somebody had once said, but that was naive. The cup never went anywhere. It was there, waiting for you to drain it to the dregs. Even if it killed you.
She held her hand flat, straight to the bent elbow, and then tucked her elbow in to her body. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she ran the end of her thumb into the next doorjamb she came to, putting all her weight on her elbow. The weight drove her hand forward.
The splinter slid in under the entire length of her thumbnail, sending an electric bolt of pain up her arm. She didn’t scream—she froze, her mouth open, her mind shocked at the wound. She closed her eyes tightly, pushing tears from their corners, and she cradled her left hand in her right.
“What the hell?” she heard from somebody, though she didn’t recognize the man’s voice. “Is she okay? What did you do?”
I can hear! she thought. It was enough to get her to rock back on her heels and open her eyes.
No. The world beyond was still crowded with vehicles and people, many overlapping in disturbing ways, and the noise of dirt movers and construction workers still swam in her head. If she looked inward, she saw Anna arguing with the old man she’d seen earlier. A moment later, she felt hands. She shook them off once more.
“I’m ready. Let’s go.” She pushed herself to her feet.
“—bleeding,” she heard.
“Let’s go.”
The image of Anna and the old man disappeared. She saw two men shake hands. A woman at a car dealership putting a signed contract in a drawer. Two kids pushing bloody cuts together.
“Yeah, great,” she said. “Just you and me, baby.”
* * *
Anna walked toward the front of the house, flanked by Van Horn’s mob. Something had happened with Karyn, that was certain. It had been confusing and dark, but it looked as though Van Horn’s guy had steered her into the side of a door by accident. There was more to that story, Anna thought, especially when Karyn looked her way. Made eye contact.
She got shoved to one side, tried looking back over at Karyn without being too obvious, got shoved again. Got separated a little.
That was real. Please. That had to be.
Down the stairs and out the front door, and the night air felt positively frigid against her skin. It smelled good, too—or maybe not good, but in contrast to the stench of the house, it was flowers and perfume.
“Let’s go,” Van Horn said. “Anna, give Jasper your car keys.”
“I don’t think so.”
Van Horn’s dull-eyed stare bored into her skull for about five seconds before she sighed and gave the keys to the naked guy, who was standing there with his hand out. She wondered where he’d keep them. What he’d say if he got pulled over.
Then she was shoved over to Nail’s van. Van Horn and one of the others got in front, and Anna was jammed in the middle between Karyn and a big guy who took up a seat and a half by himself. Genevieve was shoved in back with another guy.
Van Horn hit the gas. Anna felt none of the usual sense of relief for getting off this awful street, probably because she was bringing the awful with her.
“Are you all right?” Karyn whispered.
Anna checked Karyn’s face. Eye contact again, and tracking her, not lighting on her and slipping past to follow something invisible. “I, uh, yeah,” she said with a nod. “Yeah, I’m good. The situation could use a little help.”
“Where are we going?”
Anna sent another prayer out to the universe: let this be real, not some fucked-up cosmic joke. “I don’t know. Are you all right?” Anna asked Karyn. “You’re bleeding.”
There was an odd pause as Karyn gave her a blank look, then followed Anna’s gaze down to her hand. “It’s not bad,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Holy shit. This looked as though it might turn into a real conversation. All this bullshit might actually have been worth it. She thought the pounding of her heart might actually be more excitement than fear. Here she was, crammed in a van with a bunch of demon-worshipping psychos, en route to some horrible unknown destination, and she felt happier than she had in literally months.
“What happened to your hand?” Anna asked.
Another blank look, just like when Karyn had gotten that first splin
ter. Karyn pointed at her ear. “I can’t hear everything,” she said, “and what I can hear is pretty hard to follow.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Anna said. “Anybody got a pen?” Genevieve handed forward one of the Sharpies she always carried, along with a folded piece of paper. The guy next to her reached for it, but Van Horn said it was okay.
“Just don’t you dare try to stab me with that,” Van Horn said.
Anna took the marker without looking at or acknowledging Genevieve. She wrote in big letters: Seeing any threats? She showed it to Karyn.
“I can’t really tell—I’m seeing a lot of everything right about now.” Her smile lit up her whole face. “It is so good to see you.”
“It’s good to be seen,” Anna said. Karyn gave her a sheepish grimace that said, I didn’t quite follow that. Anna scribbled the message on paper. Good 2B seen. She started writing faster, hoping to convey their situation as quickly as possible. Let Karyn know what was going on, and maybe give her some framework to evaluate whatever crazy shit she saw. And hell, because it simply felt good to communicate with her friend.
She’d covered about half of the page when Van Horn glanced in the mirror, then over his shoulder, and frowned. “That’s probably enough of that,” he said. “Put the pen away.”
“Go to Hell.”
“I’ll get there soon enough. Put the pen away now, before I have Raul confiscate it.”
Anna put the pen in her pocket. She pointed at Van Horn for Karyn’s benefit. “Sorry,” she said. “This guy’s an asshole.”
Genevieve leaned forward from the backseat. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” Anna said. “But better, maybe.” Her mind pulled back from the moment, casting back to Mona’s sudden death. That whole scene left a bad taste in her mouth, the more she thought about it. “What did you do back there?”
“She was like a rabid dog, Anna. Did you see that? Out of her mind. She would have killed us.” The words poured out fast, one running into the next until they were almost incomprehensible.
“I get that. Sure am glad you just happened to have something handy. It’s just . . . all I can think of is how eager you were to come with me. How mad you were when I went without you the first time. Were you planning for this? Was this always part of the job?”
“Yes,” Van Horn said. “And believe me, I appreciate it.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Genevieve said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Are you working for this asshole?” Anna asked.
“No! Sobell.”
“Oh, right. Sobell. I should have guessed. It’s always Sobell.”
“Just like all of us,” Genevieve said.
“Not quite.”
“You have no idea what he’s capable of,” Genevieve said, “the kind of shit he’d do if I fucked him over. To me. To you.”
“Oh, so this was a, what, then, like some kind of selfless act?”
“Not ex—”
“Fuck you.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Van Horn said. “Do you want me to turn this van around?”
Anna looked up at the rearview mirror and caught Van Horn grinning.
“In all seriousness, I’d appreciate a little quiet for the rest of the ride. All this squabbling makes me tense.”
“I don’t care—”
“I’m not above having you gagged.”
Anna turned back around in her seat and glared at the road.
Karyn reached over and squeezed her hand, though, and while everything wasn’t quite right in that department yet, it sure seemed one hell of a lot better.
Chapter 24
“What do we do?” Erica asked.
Sobell set his glass down. Ice water, which was a shame. He had a craving for tequila, for some odd reason, and he wanted nothing more than to down half a dozen shots, sit back, and enjoy the buzz. Too bad he’d cut himself off from even that small pleasure. Erica had impressed upon him how important it was not to draw any more attention from the police, and prudence dictated that the act of lowering his inhibitions was to be avoided. He thought of himself as a pleasant drunk, and not prone to taking additional risks while under the influence, but these days he was better safe than sorry, distasteful as it might be.
“I’m sorry. What?”
He didn’t miss the moment of alarm on Erica’s face, though she smoothed it over almost instantly. She thought he was slipping. Maybe he was slipping. She tended to be right about these things. That should worry him, he supposed.
“About the message.”
Ah, the message. Something must have happened with Mme. Gorow, because one of Ruiz’s accomplices had left Erica a message on her burner, invoking both Van Horn and Forcas. Probably best to move on that right away. “Oh, right. Have you got a secure phone?”
“Secure? No. Unidentified burner cell, yes.”
“I’ll assume the two are roughly synonymous for our purposes.”
Erica scowled. “Not if the phone you’re calling is tapped.”
“Ms. Ruiz changes phones like lesser women change their undergarments. It’s a risk I’m comfortable with.”
“I’m not sure I am.”
Sobell paused in the act of reaching for his water. “Excuse me?”
“I’m in this almost as deeply as you are, Enoch. If you go down, I’ll end up going down with you.”
“Nonsense. That’s why they invented attorney-client privilege.”
“The FBI will kick the privilege to death in a case like this. It’s not designed to cover up actual criminal activity. And you damn well know it. That’s what gets me. Do you think this is amateur hour?”
He touched his fingertips to the glass and rotated it on the desk. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “I need this, Erica. It’s not a matter of going to prison. It’s life or death. If you get me through this alive, I will buy you an island. From prison, if necessary.”
She smiled sadly. “You can’t afford an island.”
“Small island. Collection of rocks and seaweed, really. Somewhat connected to the mainland when the tide is out.”
“You’ll buy me a peninsula.”
“If that’s what we can get. I need to make this call.”
“All right.” She pulled a phone from her purse and handed to him, along with a Post-it note with a phone number on it.
He dialed.
“Hi.” A woman’s voice, over road noise.
“Ms. Ruiz?”
“Yeah. Sobell?”
“Mr. Sobell will do fine. Thank you.”
“Right.”
“You said somebody wanted to speak with me.”
“Yeah. Uh, here he is.” More road noise, followed by a loud burst of static as the phone mic brushed something.
Then Van Horn’s voice: “Enoch.”
“Edgar.”
“Your thieves came through.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Had they delivered properly, I would be holding the item in my hand. Instead, I’m speaking to . . . you.”
“There’s been a change in my fortunes.”
“So I gathered. Has there been a change in mine?”
“Looks like you did quite a number on Mona,” Van Horn said. “My friends ate her, you know.”
“That’s particularly unpleasant, if not surprising. I was told Forcas was ready to speak with me.”
“He is. But you’re not exactly in his good graces, you might remember.”
Sobell looked at Erica and rolled his eyes. “I assume there’s a price for that.”
“We need a sacrifice.”
“Oh, is that all? Virgin or otherwise?”
“Different kind of sacrifice. The Pharaoh’s Chalice should do nicely.”
“That is . . . no longer in my possession.”
“Anything of roughly that caliber should work. St. George’s sword, that grotty old torc we found.”
Sobell nearly laughed aloud at the ma
n’s insouciance. The torc he referred to, an ancient ring of bronze and gold large enough for a big man to wear around his neck, was priceless. “That ‘grotty old torc’ is twenty-eight hundred years old and has killed fourteen kings.”
“It ought to work nicely, then.”
“Not really a sacrifice, though, is it? Not in the classical sense.”
“It will be.”
“Very well. I can accommodate that.”
“We’ll also require your kit for greater workings.”
“Are we performing a greater working tonight?”
“And eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“Not very mystical, that.”
“A man’s gotta eat.” Van Horn sounded peeved. Nice to know he could still get under his skin, Sobell thought.
“I see. Are you coming here, or shall I meet you?”
At this, Erica became so agitated she stood up and whispered, “What?”
“The latter.” Van Horn gave an address, which Sobell dutifully copied down.
“Give me an hour. I don’t think the ATM will accommodate this evening’s requirements.”
“Sure.” He hung up.
Erica exploded. “Where are you going? Who are you meeting? And what was that crap about an ATM?” Her mouth tightened into a small angry slash.
“You need to move quickly,” Sobell said. “Get eight hundred thousand from one of the caches and meet me back here in forty minutes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Erica, if I have to get it myself, what do I need you for?”
“Is that a threat?”
He frowned. “A threat that I’ll have to terminate your employment if you can’t handle the most basic of tasks, yes.”
“Fifteen years, you’ve followed my counsel and stayed out of prison. I don’t like this, Enoch. You’re becoming . . .” She paused, her mouth turned down in disgust. “. . . erratic.”
“I prefer to think of myself as whimsical. Now, I don’t have time to faff about with this, particularly if you’re not going to help. Are you going to get the money, or do I need to handle this myself?”
“I’ll go. What are you going to be doing?”
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