“What…” The fat man cringed backward. “What do you mean?”
“Take it.” He held the gun by its barrel, handle extended toward the other. “All you have to do is show the same strength of will that I showed against God, when I fought Him face to face in Heaven. If you do that, then I promise you, you can spend as much time with your precious family as you want. Watching your children grow up and your pretty young wife grow fat.”
He forced the gun into the magnate’s trembling grasp.
For a full, ticking minute, the fat man grasped the gun in his doubled fists, its snout wavering toward the Devil’s chest. Then, at last, it dropped away, dangling between the man’s knees where he sat. “I … can’t … I want to do it. But somehow, I just can’t…”
“No. Of course you can’t … And I’d have been astonished if you could.” With a thumb and forefinger, he plucked the gun away, turning to toss it onto the desktop. “I was making a point, that’s all. About how unworthy an opponent Man has always been. And how easy it is to destroy you all, by taking away your will to act. That’s what happens to all of you who take my hand. I rip the willpower out of you bit by bit, until finally it is gone completely. Making it impossible for you to ever return to the way you were before.”
The Devil sank down at the desk, leaning his head against one hand, as though suddenly wearied. “Go now, and leave me in peace.” His other hand made a curt gesture of dismissal. “There’s no hope left for you. The arrangements to end your life tomorrow night have already been made. So, go home, and enjoy what little time you have left.”
The heavy stone door swung open, revealing one of the Devil’s secretaries. Well-dressed, glossily made-up, in the full sexual vigor of her midthirties—the woman would have been attractive enough if it hadn’t been for the thin, malicious smile that revealed her to be one of the Devil’s witches.
“This way,” she said coldly. “Hurry along, now.”
Beyond her, the fat magnate saw the office’s lobby, crowded to the suffocation point with all the other supplicants who had come begging for a moment of the Devil’s precious time. Young, old, healthy or sick—all forced to stand and wait, without even knowing whether they would be allowed to see the one whose mercy they craved.
Their eyes all locked upon the magnate, desperate to see some sign of hope, some indication that the Devil might be in a good enough mood to grant even a few small favors. Even a day’s extension on the fatal contracts to which they had all signed their names …
The lobby looked less like a place of business than it did a slaughterhouse, helpless creatures crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, with no way of escape before them other than their own deaths. Their faces were lit ghastly by the churning red glow barely visible through the thick sheet of tempered glass that formed the floor beneath their shuffling feet. Above the supplicants’ heads, a frieze of grotesquely carved statues adorned all four walls of the lobby.
“You clubfooted bastard—”
Those words brought the Devil’s gaze back down from the lobby’s hideous decorations to the shivering specimen of humanity still in front of him.
“Someday…” Trapped in the office’s doorway, the press of sweaty bodies tight against him, the fat magnate had managed to summon up his last scrap of courage. Chin trembling, he glared at the Devil.
“Someday you’ll find out what it’s like to be so frightened.” He raised his arm, gesturing toward the others packed into the lobby. “To be just as frightened and hopeless as everyone here—”
“Frightened?” The Devil barked out a harsh laugh. “Of who?”
“Of someone…” The magnate clenched his hands into trembling, ineffectual fists. “There are stories—a legend—of people you should fear. I just hope…” His eyes welled with childish tears. “I just hope that one day those stories come true.”
Before the Devil could unleash the anger rising inside himself, his secretary pushed the magnate out into the crowded lobby. She pulled the door closed, leaving the Devil at peace in the empty office. The vision in the lobby, that of disgusting, cringing humanity, was removed from his sight.
He walked back over to the window, the cloven hoof inside his clubbed shoe dragging with each step. The supplicants in the lobby could rot, for all he cared. He had no interest in hearing any more of their whining pleas tonight. They would all still be there tomorrow, and for all the days to come, without end.
“Legends…” The Devil muttered to himself, gazing out at the city’s dark skyline. “Prophecies…” It infuriated him that he’d had to listen to such nonsense twice in one night.
He looked down at the dead peach tree in the garden, its bare branches straggling through the rain falling upon it. That sight made him feel better. Just knowing that it would never bloom … that all those legends and prophecies were just pathetic fairy tales. Things that stupid human beings told to each other, trying to create some hope for themselves in the darkened prison of their world.
As he brooded, savoring the bleakness of his meditations, the dark grey clouds just above the windows suddenly darkened to black, their heavy billows etched by a flash of lightning. The blue-white electricity filled the window as it shot by.
Down below, the lightning struck the tree, filling the garden square with smoke. But when it cleared, driven aside by the rain, the Devil saw that the dead tree hadn’t been broken into splinters. Instead, the slender trunk seemed to glow, as though the leaping energy still coursed inside, waking it from centuries of dormant slumber. Green shoots pushed through the bark of the branches, lifting skyward. He could almost imagine being able to catch the sweet fragrance of the scattered peach blossoms opening, delicate and papery white.
He stared down at the tree in horror. Beyond rage, as though still in shock from what he had witnessed. That he had never seen before …
“Prophecy,” he whispered to himself. The word sounded different now, filled with dread meaning. He laid a hand against the cold glass, wondering if that day had arrived at last.
The one in which the fairy tale would finally come true.
4.
When you’re seven feet tall, and nearly as wide, it’s hard to sneak up on people. So Hank didn’t try anymore.
Instead, he smashed open the crack house’s boarded-up door and lumbered inside, his shoulders barely squeezing through the frame. His heavy workman’s boots splintered the scraps of wood that his massive fists had so easily broken apart. The bare lightbulb dangling from the water-stained ceiling shattered against his brow, the hallway plunging into darkness as he brushed away the shards of glass.
“Holy shit!” At the end of the narrow space, a voice shouted in surprise, just as if the person had never seen a human bulldozer before—and worse, one that was heading straight for him and his buddies. The skinny figure darted away, shouting a frantic warning to the rooms beyond.
Hank knew there was supposed to be about a dozen or so people inside the crack house. Heavily armed—weren’t they always?—and one of the worst gangs in the city, murderously disposed even before they got themselves hopped up on their own merchandise. Cleaning up scum like this was business as usual for him, doing the sort of job that the municipal police couldn’t be bothered with. A professional hit man such as Hank didn’t let it bother him that he was getting paid by people who weren’t much cleaner than the ones he took out.
The clatter of guns being scrambled for and loaded came from the other side of the door. That didn’t bother him, either. As always, the only weapons he had brought were his fists. And they were more than enough to do the job.
As he plodded forward without hurry, a door flung open and a shotgun blast roared. The lead pellets ripped the ancient flowered wallpaper beside him to confetti. He had come close enough that he could grab the hot barrel of the gun, yank it out of the gang member’s hands, then slam its worn wooden butt against the punk’s head. He stepped over the dying body, ready for the next.
They came at him with their full arsenal. A rusty
machete swung toward his face. He knocked it aside with his forearm, then rammed his other fist into the punk’s gut. The impact doubled him over, right where Hank could bring a knee up, turning what had been a human face into a bag of broken bones, leaking red. A handgun sprayed its clip wildly at his back. He turned and grabbed the gun, its last shot singeing between his fingers, and crushed another gang member’s hand into a wad of blood and cartilage around it. A blow to that one’s chest dropped another lifeless body at Hank’s feet. From behind, a heavy chain slammed across his shoulders. Not even bothering to look around, he clamped the linked iron in his grip and pulled, dragging another one within range of his fists …
He appreciated it when creeps like this, the ones he’d been hired to eliminate, came at him all at once; it saved time. The last thug placed himself in the doorway of what had once been the house’s kitchen, and was now filled with a haphazard assemblage of lab equipment and empty plastic bins of drug precursors. Unsteady hands gripped a .357 magnum, the black hole of its snout aimed straight at Hank’s chest.
From beside one of the corpses, he picked up a broken length of broomstick that one of them had laughably tried to use as a club; he hadn’t even felt the blow crack on top of his head. Now he cocked his arm back, then whipped it forward. The wood tumbled end over end, then brought its splintered point straight into the gunman’s brow with enough force to bury itself halfway through his head. The man dropped backward, the gun discharging a round into the ceiling as it thudded onto the corpse’s chest.
When the noise of gunshots and hammer blows and bones being crushed finally faded, he figured that maybe ten minutes had gone by since he had slammed through the crack house’s door. If it had been as long as twelve, that would have been a minute for each of the broken bodies he counted, laid out around him. About par for the course.
His breathing was still as slow and easy as it had been when he had started this job. He pulled back his jacket sleeve and the cuff of the faded denim work shirt underneath, and laid a couple of fingertips on the underside of his wrist, checking his pulse. That hadn’t sped up, either. “Damn,” he muttered. It didn’t come as a surprise to him, but as a disappointment, the same he always felt. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, dug out a handkerchief, and used it to wipe the spattered blood from his face.
A moan sounded from somewhere nearby. A spark of hope leapt upward in his chest. This was the sort of opportunity he hardly ever received, given how efficiently he went about his work. He rushed past the bodies, peering down to see which of the gang members might still be alive.
By the crack house’s front door, Hank found one who had managed to crawl that far. Blood still bubbled from the wound in the man’s throat. The eyes focused enough to see the hulking figure that loomed over him, and widened in terror.
“Don’t worry…” Hank leaned in close over the gang member, desperate to speak to him before it was too late. “I’m not here to hurt you. Not anymore. I’m here for something else now…” He brought his face down. “This is just between you and me…”
Chest heaving, the man gasped. “Wuh … whut…”
“Listen. You’re finished, pal. So don’t fight it.” He reached behind the dying man’s shoulders and lifted him closer. “Just answer me…”
He searched deep into the other’s eyes, his own breath stopping in his chest.
“Are you … afraid?”
Blood draining from beneath his face, the man feebly nodded.
Breath moved inside Hank’s chest again, his pulse racing. “Then tell me. Because I need to know. What does it feel like … Fear?”
There was no answer except gurgling blood.
“Please…” He shook the gang member’s shoulders.
The man’s eyes dulled opaque, and a last small bubble burst in the ruin of his throat.
* * *
“Damn.” Hank straightened back up. His ragged fingernails dug inside his clenched fists. That time, he had felt really close. To finding out at last.
The rain had started up again, more of the city’s relentlessly punitive weather. Hank zipped up his jacket as he left the crack house, and the bodies inside. The organization that had hired him for the job could go in and make their own count, and total up how much they owed him. He didn’t care.
Across the street’s mounds of rubble, yellowing scraps of newspaper turning into sodden mulch, the neighborhood’s residents regarded him from under the eaves of the lightless buildings. Mainly whores and their pimps, the kind scrabbling out the final bits of their working lives, mixed in with addicts prowling for their connections. They blankly watched him go; whatever had gone down inside the crack house had been close to normal for them as well.
As his heavy step crumbled fragments from the edges of the broken sidewalk, he heard the sound of a car cruising slowly behind him. That wasn’t unusual in a district like this; all sorts of types from the more prosperous parts of town came down here, looking to purchase something for their evening’s entertainment, the transaction conducted through side windows rolled down only an inch or two. But this car seemed to be pacing him, which was an annoyance. He figured he had already plodded through enough work for one morning, and didn’t want to be bothered with somebody wanting to mess with so large a target. He stopped and turned around.
Not just a car, but a shining black limo, its length taking up nearly half the block. He could see the chauffeur silhouetted behind the wheel. And dimly, another figure in the back.
The limo pulled up even with him and stopped. Its rear door closest to him opened up, pushed by the passenger’s hand.
“Hank?” The passenger displayed a slight smile. “It’s Hank, isn’t it?”
“Might be.” It took him a moment, peering inside the limo, to realize that he was speaking to a dwarf, shoulders hunched forward by a malformed spine. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” The hand holding the limo door open bore a large magnesium ring, engraved with some starlike symbol unfamiliar to him. The polished metal contrasted oddly with the scabs and suppurating boils visible on the dwarf’s skin. “But that’s something we can take care of. Get inside, so we can talk.”
Hank rubbed his chafed knuckles. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will be too late. Please, you’ll find it worth your while, I promise.”
“Maybe I will.” Hank shrugged. “But like I said, I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
The dwarf leaned back against the soft leather seat. “Names don’t really matter in my line of work. Let’s just say … I’m a lawyer. With a very important client.” The dwarf’s smile was like a swath cut from a rotting pumpkin. “I have a job for you. A lucrative one. And dangerous, too.”
His own gaze narrowing, Hank studied the smaller man. “How dangerous?”
“Probably the most dangerous one you’ll ever have.” He slid farther to the side of the limo, making room for Hank to join him. “Honestly, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The promise of danger proved too tempting for Hank. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes.” He gripped the top of the door and began working his bulk inside. “But I’m just warning you. I’ll be mucho pissed’ if you waste my time.”
The hollow sound of the rain drumming against the roof filled the limo’s interior. The upholstered ceiling pressed hard against the top of Hank’s head. Even given the spaciousness of the limo’s interior, the dwarfish lawyer was squeezed tight against the other door.
“Let me begin by saying this—” The dwarf signaled to the chauffeur, and the limo began slowly rolling through the city streets again. “You aren’t the only hit man that my client is employing today. In fact, as far as I’m aware, every other killer in the city is already on his payroll.”
“So what does he want with me?” Hank had a close-up view of the dwarf. The rashes and boils covered the beak-nosed face as well, as if the small man wouldn’t have been ugly enough without them.
&nbs
p; “Quite simply, you’re the best,” continued the dwarf. “Not only because of your size and skill. But also, more importantly, because of your … condition.”
Hank stiffened. “My condition?”
“Your pantophobia. That’s the medical term for it, I believe. In layman’s terms, a complete and utter absence of fear.”
Hank growled. “How do you know about that?”
“I’ve read your medical records. Apparently, you’ve had it since birth. The most extreme case ever recorded, they say. A real advantage for someone in your line of work.” The dwarf displayed his yellow-toothed smile once more. “Which is why my client is so anxious to have you on our team.”
“You’ve read”—Hank’s growl grew worse—“my medical records?”
The lawyer acknowledged the comment with a nod. “My client likes to know who he’s dealing with before he makes them an offer. To be precise, we know everything about you, Hank. We know exactly how many people you’ve killed in your current profession. And we know all about the trouble you caused at the orphanage, when you were a boy. You were sent there just after you’d killed your parents, I think. The first two deaths in a very long line.”
Anger swelled in Hank’s body; the limo’s seat creaked, as though it were about to break. His fists clenched as he struggled to restrain the impulse to reach over and crush the lawyer’s wiry-haired skull. You sonuvabitch. Hank seethed inside himself. The rage didn’t come from this man knowing so much about him. And not from the bit about that pantophobia crap, or whatever it was called. No, it was the way that the lawyer had made it sound that somehow his parents’ deaths had been connected to all the scumbags he had taken care of in his job as a hit man. When actually there was no connection at all, except for there having been dead bodies at the end of the process. He gritted his teeth, shoving that certainty tighter into his thoughts. No goddamn connection at all.
But he knew he was lying to himself. There was a connection, and he hated the dwarf for knowing it as well. The lack of fear, that pantaphobia thing he had been born with—it made it easy for him to kill criminals. But it was also why his parents had died. That was the connection.
Death's Apprentice: A Grimm City Novel Page 4
