Death's Apprentice: A Grimm City Novel

by Gareth Jefferson Jones K. W. Jeter

  He had been nine years old, his parents still alive. He’d been huge then as well, not as big as he was now, but going on adult size. Strong as an ox. And worse, fearless. Which got a nine-year-old kid into all sorts of trouble, whether he meant to or not. And his poor mom and dad, worried about what might become of him if he went on that way, had tried to cure him of it one Halloween. If fearlessness was the problem, then the cure was to somehow put fear into him. They tried the best they could: jumping out of the dark in his bedroom, draped in bedsheets to make themselves look like ghosts. It didn’t work—he wasn’t scared—but he did think that the ghosts were real. He could still see every detail in his mind, as if it were happening again. He saw that huge nine-year-old boy leaping out of bed with the baseball bat he kept leaned against the wall, then attacking the ghosts with a flurry of blows. The fear might not have been there inside him, but he had still watched in horror as his parent’s blood trickled toward him from behind the sheets and out across his bedroom floor.…

  Hank still felt sickened by it. He knew that everything he felt about that night would never disappear. How could it? The guilt had made him what he was. All through growing up in the orphanage—and then his career as a professional hit man—it had always been that guilt that had driven him forward. Driven him to try and cure the fearlessness that was his curse. The more dangerous the places and fights that he walked into, the better. Maybe one of them, someday, would be enough to bring that hotly desired but never experienced substance, that fear, into his heart. And then maybe he would somehow be at peace.

  He opened his eyes and looked over at the dwarf. “You ever mention my parents again,” said Hank, “and I’ll kill you. My past is my own affair. The same goes for my condition, too.”

  The lawyer held up a mollifying palm. “If I’ve upset you, I’m sorry. Everyone needs secrets, and yours are safe with me.” Beneath his insincere words rose the sound of the limo’s wide tires rolling through the sodden streets. “The only reason I brought it up is because I wanted to make it clear to you why my client needs you on his side. All the details aren’t in yet, but there could be a bloodbath in this city before this day is through. And it’s vital that we have someone on our team who’ll stick with the job to the end, no matter how tough the going gets.”

  Hank leaned back, still regarding the lawyer suspiciously. “This guy you work for, who is he?”

  The dwarf’s scabby finger tapped the starlike symbol on his ring. “Let’s just say he’s a businessman, with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.”

  Hank’s laugh was a quick, rumbling bark. “I’ve heard that before. And the targets?”

  “There are three of them in total. Three men, by all accounts.”

  “And you’re sure they’re bad, these guys?” he asked. “Because I don’t hurt innocents. Just people who are in a position to hurt me, too.”

  The dwarf acknowledged the comment with another nod. “Rest assured, these men are the worst kinds of scum you’ll ever find. In fact, considering what they’re planning to start today, you could even call them mass murderers.” He turned away and glanced at the rivulets of water sluicing over the side windows. “So … can I tell my client you’ll take the job?”

  Hank had to admit that his interest had been piqued. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in. What I need from you now are their IDs, and the address where I can find them.”

  “Ah…” The dwarf smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid it isn’t quite as simple as that. You see, their identities and whereabouts aren’t clear to us at the moment. All we know is that they must be here in the city somewhere. Either as a group, or on their own.”

  “But … if you don’t know where they are, how the hell am I supposed to kill them?”

  “I suppose by just … doing what you do best…” The dwarf folded his scabby hands to explain. “You see, my client has instructed me to inform you that despite your strength and skill, killing these three men will be far from easy. So, if that difficulty in killing them is the only way to recognize them, he suggests that you simply attack everyone in this accursed city who’s dangerous enough to hurt you, and let us know when you finally meet your match.”

  Hank glared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.” The dwarf’s beady eyes didn’t even flinch. “As I said, my client has every faith in you. So rest assured, however many people you end up killing today, he is more than happy to pick up the tab.”

  Every bastard who can take a shot at me … The danger of it called to Hank. Every scumbag who might be able to do me damage … Then, when I meet someone who can do the business, I just ring up this dwarf and tell him that I’ve found his guys.

  Hank gave a nod, sold on the brutal clarity of it. “Okay,” he said. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  5.

  He had already lost so much blood, he was growing dizzy.

  The city’s streets seemed faint and without substance as Blake plodded forward. With one arm, he clutched his blood-soaked overcoat to the torn flesh over his ribs. The red strings of the broken stitches dangled from under the coat’s bottom hem. A trail of bloodspots, some as big as his hand, mingled with his muddy footprints on the pavement behind him.

  He kept to the city’s backstreets, trying to avoid anyone seeing him. But it was impossible. Even in this dump, a man staggering along, leaking blood, drew attention. And not the helpful kind. He knew that the sight of his begrimed, wounded form disgusted everyone who spotted him. Some people crossed the street to get away from this filthy specter; others took more direct action.

  Children were the worst. Their parents might throw curses in his direction, but the kids used stones. Blake felt a couple of fist-sized rocks strike him in the back; he turned and glared at the little bastards, but the sight of his grime-darkened face didn’t scare them away. Instead, the next rock hit him just below the eye, drawing another leak of his body’s rapidly dwindling resources. He watched as a couple of adults came up behind the kids, putting hands on their shoulders, as though defending them from him. Too weak for a confrontation, he turned and stumbled on.

  He managed to leave the crowd behind him, at least far enough to slip into the hiding place of an unlit alley. Sinking against the wall’s base, he tried to recover his strength, one ragged breath after another. The blood dripping from underneath his coat made a darkly shining pool beneath him. He pressed his hand against his side. There were things that he needed to do, things he had come to this stinking city for—but the chances of pulling all that off were nonexistent if he didn’t get the wound sewn up.

  For a moment, he thought that the loss of blood had sunk him into delusion: somehow, he could hear animals whining from somewhere nearby. But when he raised his head and looked around, he couldn’t see dogs or any other creature. He was still alone in the alley.

  The whining continued, sharp and persistent. It sounded as though the animals, wherever they might be, were in pain. He spotted a courtyard at the far end of the alley, with some kind of shabby warehouse building at the rear of the space. The noises seemed to come from there. Blake got to his feet and stumbled toward the building. Maybe there would be some corner that he could creep into unobserved, where he could curl up and rest.

  A row of windows along the ground floor had been whitewashed to keep anybody from peering in. But one with a broken latch was slightly ajar, letting the whimpering animal sounds escape from inside. Blake pulled the window open farther, enough for him to get a look at whatever was happening.

  He saw a surgical table, but not one big enough for a human being. The sheet covering it was soaked with nearly as much blood as his own tattered overcoat. Under a glaring fluorescent light, a balding figure in a red-spattered lab coat was hunched over a mongrel dog, its neck and haunches held down with leather straps. The fur and skin over the dog’s ribs had been peeled back, revealing the pulsing organs beneath. The red mess eerily resembled the wound under Blake’s overcoat.
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  The man in the lab coat was some kind of veterinarian, Blake figured—but not the kind that made animals better, or eased their pain. He watched as a scalpel dug around this dog’s pinkish lungs, then dropped on to the table when the veterinarian picked up a portable dictation recorder in one latex-gloved hand.

  “Considerable indications of advanced pulmonary necrosis present in test subject.” Unaware of the man watching from the window behind, the vet bent down to peer into the animal’s exposed thoracic cavity. “Increase in dosage of the experimental formulation appears to have had negative effects, with likelihood of eventual fatality.…”

  It was some kind of vivisection going on—Blake mulled over the scene he watched. Must be running tests, he figured, for some kind of drug company. Technically illegal but the law was never enforced, at least as long as the grisly procedures were kept out of sight in a place like this. The Dumpster at the side of the building was probably piled high with eviscerated animal corpses.

  But where there was a doctor, any kind of doctor, there would be needles and suture threads. The kind with which torn, bleeding flesh could be stitched back up. He pushed himself away from the window and stumbled toward the door a few yards away.

  Pounding his fist on the door took nearly the last of his strength. He had to lean his shoulder against the frame to keep from collapsing. Through the dull haze blurring his senses, he was vaguely aware of footsteps inside, heading toward him.

  “What—” Opening the door, the veterinarian, still in his bloodied lab coat, raised a hand to keep Blake from toppling in on him. Revulsion showed in the upcurled corner of the vet’s mouth as he surveyed the dirty figure, red pooling on the doorstep. “Get the hell out of here!”

  “Please … help…”

  “This isn’t a hospital—” The vet pushed the door against Blake. “If you’re in trouble, go find an emergency room.”

  “Can’t…” Wedging himself between the frame and the edge of the door, Blake rummaged in the pocket of his overcoat. “Here…” He pulled out a wad of cash. “I can pay…”

  Eyes widening, the vet took the greasy bundle from the beggar’s hand. “What’s somebody like you doing with this kind of money?”

  “That’s … not your business…” He could feel his head swimming, as though the last of his blood had been drained from it. “Just help me…” Digging inside the coat again, he pulled out another wad of money and pressed it into the vet’s hands. “That enough? I got more…” Another wad of bloodstained bills joined the others. “All you want … doesn’t matter…” He dug into the coat once more. “Don’t need it…”

  A small mountain of cash filled the vet’s cupped palms. He stared at the wads in amazement, then slowly nodded. “All right,” he said, holding the cash tight against the bloodied front of his coat. “I’ll get you fixed up. Come on inside.”

  From seemingly miles away, the building’s door closed somewhere behind him. Blake let the veterinarian steer him down a corridor lined with filthy cages. The stick-ribbed animals they held regarded the two men with mournful resignation.

  “Let’s get a look at you.” In the surgery room, the vet dragged a larger table under the fluorescent light. “Get up here.”

  “I can’t…” Blake gripped the edge of the chrome table. “Can’t … make it…”

  The vet got a hand under his filthy arm and strained to lift him. Blake got a knee up on the table, then rolled heavily onto his side.

  “You get into a fight or something?” The vet lifted one side of the blood-soaked overcoat, then dropped it. He staggered back into the wall, startled by the raw, red flesh he had just glimpsed. “Good God—you shouldn’t even be alive—not like that!”

  “Tell me … about it…”

  “It’s … it’s joined to you…” The vet leaned forward, staring in mingled revulsion and amazement at what he saw. With one cautious fingertip, he prodded what seemed like an open wound running down from Blake’s chest. The vet’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the bloodied flesh respond to his touch, quivering as it pulled the coat’s wet fabric along with it. “Like … it’s all one piece. Like it’s part of you or something…”

  “It is,” Blake said through gritting teeth.

  “How is that possible?” A horrified fascination was evident in the vet’s eyes as he wiped his hand on his lab coat. “How’d you get this way?”

  “Long … story…”

  “It must be, I’ve seen corpses in better shape than you.” The vet recovered himself enough to be able to lift the edge of the coat once more and peer at what lay beneath. “Whatever it is … I need to get it cleaned up first.”

  “No…” The matted dreadlocks dragged across Blake’s shoulders as he slowly shook his head. “Just … sew it back together…”

  “But you’ll get septicemia if we don’t disinfect it—” The vet bit his own lip, hands tightening into knots. “If you haven’t got it already, that is…”

  “That … won’t happen…” The beggar shook his head again. “Just … patch me up…”

  “Okay, okay…,” muttered the vet. “But don’t blame me if you don’t pull through…”

  Blake hissed with pain as the veterinarian stroked a wet swab, held in a pair of forceps, across the wound. “I said don’t clean it!”

  “You said no disinfectant. This is just water. Or are you saying that’s out, too?”

  “Can’t … Can’t clean myself with anything … Not ever. Just … sew it … please…”

  The forceps clattered as the vet dropped them into a chrome tray. He drew the coat farther apart, and saw the metal military dog tags hanging around Blake’s neck. “Army, eh? Which war?”

  “The army?” Blake said, confused. “Was I … I don’t know … Not anymore…” He felt the needle in the vet’s hand piercing the torn edges of his flesh. Everything in the room started to roll away from him, the space between the surgery table and the walls expanding with each labored beat of his heart. “I can’t … remember…”

  * * *

  But the memory found him in his fevered dreams.

  There was a cage. That part was clear and vivid in his memory, as though he were sitting crouched in it once again, his forearms hugging his knees to his chest, the sweat trickling down his neck and into his uniform. There was a patch on his sleeve that indicated his rank—master sergeant—and another, the insignia of the twelve-man alpha team that he led. He touched the patches, as though they helped him to remember who he was.

  A soldier …

  There were other things—worse things—he could remember.

  He was leading his alpha team on an antiterrorist sweep through an Afghan mountain range. Death was just as close then as it was in the vet’s office, but he didn’t mind that. Not as long as he was with his buddies. They were as close to family as he’d ever had. The whole team had taken a sacred oath, sealed with blood and a bottle of whiskey, to protect each other through thick and thin, and to avenge each other’s death, whenever that might come. To mess with any of Blake’s alpha team was to wind up with all of them on your sorry, soon-to-be-annihilated ass.

  Blake was the point man on the Afghan sweep. But the comm link to the rest of his team fritzed out while he was separated from them in one of the winding cave systems. Then there was gunfire, and a hand-to-hand fight. A pack of insurgents attacked him from behind. Too many for him to kill alone …

  An ambush … he realized as the butt of an insurgent’s Kalashnikov struck him in the back of the neck. Got to warn them … Tell them it’s a trap …

  The beatings started at the isolated farmhouse they took him to. Almost nonstop, they left him a bleeding near-corpse, slumped in the squat cage they threw him back into after every round.

  “Why … don’t you just kill me?” he asked after a week of it, raising his bruised and bloodied face to them in the candlelight of the farmhouse cellar. “What’re you people waiting for?”

  But the answer became obvious when h
e saw them set up a computer and video rig right next to his cage. They were going to execute him. Live across the Internet. As a propaganda coup in the battle for hearts and minds.

  His captors left the farmhouse then; they had business elsewhere. Their leader promised Blake that they would return, sharpened knife in hand, in three days’ time. After Friday prayers.

  He looked up at the skinny teenager, hardly more than a child, that they had left behind. “You got a name, kid?”

  “Adeeb.” The kid didn’t appear to be more than fourteen years old or so, his arms and legs thin as matchsticks. “I’m here to keep you alive. Until the others come back to kill you.”

  Blake let out a stilted laugh at the irony of it. “Where’d you learn my language?”

  “My village had a school…” Adeeb spooned out a mess of rice and goat scraps, and passed the bowl through the cage’s bars. “Before we were bombed.”

  “By us?”

  Adeeb nodded. “My mother and father were killed. My sisters, too. The people here are the only ones I have now. Without them, I’d starve.”

  Blake scooped the food into his mouth with his fingertips. “Yeah…” He nodded. “Sometimes … war just sucks.”

  The kid was a kind enough jailer, and Blake found himself liking the boy more and more as the hours ticked by. In some ways, he even felt sorrier for the kid than he did for himself. Someplace else, with maybe a living mom and dad, Adeeb might’ve been just an ordinary kid, doing ordinary things. But he supposed that might have been true for a lot of people, himself included.

  Sitting in a cage left him with plenty of time over the next couple of nights to get himself ready for death. That didn’t take much, since he had been expecting it for a long time even before the insurgents had captured him. As far as Blake was concerned, it pretty much came with the job, and the life—however short—that he had chosen for himself. The only thing that bothered him was Adeeb. He didn’t want the kid to have to see him die. The insurgents had left Adeeb an old M16 rifle with which to guard their captive; he slept with it, over in the corner of the room.