City of the Lost (9781101563137)

by Blackmore, Stephen

  “No,” she says. “I didn’t do it. I’m certainly capable of it, but it wasn’t me.”

  My bullshit detector still isn’t going off. Either it’s completely offline, or she’s telling the truth. “Any clue who else could have done it?”

  She gives a exasperated little grunt. “I can think of twenty people off the top of my head, but only Neumann would have cared enough to try. But you say he showed up after that.” She drums her fingers on her desk. “I’m less concerned with who and more concerned with why.”

  “Carl must have found something out.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what I mean. Someone could have made him forget and could have kept him in the room, but they didn’t need to make him old like that. No, this was because someone was hiding their tracks.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Making a person forget is easy if you do it over time. The house-cleaners in Bel Air probably had their memories chipped away at for a while. It doesn’t pull a lot of power out of the well, and nobody’s going to notice. But do it fast and for a strong recent memory? That takes a lot of juice.”

  “Somebody would have caught that?” I say.

  “Oh, hell, yeah. Not that they’d necessarily care. A lot of things pull that much power. It’s nothing like how much Giavetti’s been pulling out with the stone, but it’s enough that somebody like me would perk up and wonder what was going on.”

  “And you haven’t noticed anything.”

  “Nope. Around the time you say it happened, I don’t remember so much as a blip.”

  I get a sinking feeling as I start to pull things together. Images of the desiccated corpses around Giavetti’s morgue drawer fill my head.

  “They drained Carl to get the power, and that’s what aged him,” I say.

  “Only thing I can think of.”

  Goddammit. If Carl had stayed the fuck away he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess. I run through all the ways I could have warned him off better, but I know him. I could have broken his legs, and he would have gone after it anyway.

  “I’m still not getting why it would have mattered,” I say. “So you notice, so what?”

  “It’s not easy, but sometimes it’s possible to trace that kind of thing back to the person who did it. It sort of taints a person for awhile.”

  “Like a dye pack in a bag of stolen money.”

  She nods. “Close enough. But it’s a moot point. They didn’t pull from the well. They drained it directly out of him.” She shakes her head. “That must’ve hurt.”

  I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Thirty years of your life stripped away just to make you forget something? Roofies would have been kinder.

  “So how do we find this person?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that’s easy. Comparatively speaking. We ask Carl.”

  “But he doesn’t—”

  “We ask him after I’ve gotten him here and fiddled with the memory wipe,” she says, cutting me off. “I’ll have somebody pick him up. I might be able to get something out of him.”

  “He can’t leave the room.”

  “I’ll take care of your friend. He’ll be fine.”

  I’m not convinced, but Carl needs to get out of there and if she knows something about what’s happened to him maybe she can help. And maybe she can get some answers.

  I don’t want to think about it anymore. “What did Darius mean by the ‘usual terms’ for answering my questions? How do you pay him?”

  “Prostitutes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Prostitutes. You know, sex workers. He likes redheads, though he’s not that picky. Men, women, as long as he can get his rocks off.”

  “You hire hookers to feed the demon?”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way, but no. He has sex with them. And they’re not typical prostitutes.”

  The phone on her desk rings. “Speaking of which,” she picks it up. She listens a bit then says, “Yeah, send her up.”

  “That one of them?”

  “Yeah. You’ll see what I mean.”

  A few minutes later a woman in a tube top and short skirt pokes her head around the door. She’s rail thin, copper hair in a teased mess, stark red lipstick glows from her pale face. Sores at the corner of her lips. Looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in years. Needle tracks all up and down the insides of her arms.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Looking for an advance, Patty?”

  “Well, yeah. Not really. I just … I just thought I could get some before going in to see Darius. He means well, but I gotta have my strength or he, you know, hurts.” She brings her knees together as she says it.

  “Yeah, no problem. A unit now and a unit after? A-Positive work for you?”

  “Oh, could ya? That’d be great. Really great.”

  Gabriela gets up from her chair, goes to a small fridge, and pulls out a plastic pouch of blood. The Red Cross logo right there on the front. Gabriela tosses the bag to the vampire, and she catches it with a little panic on her face.

  If she’s paying them off in blood, she’s got to have a steady supply. And if she can get blood, can she get other things? Hearts maybe?

  “Go ahead and use the bathroom by the elevator,” Gabriela says.

  Patty nods and disappears back down the hall. She’s not paying attention, anymore. Gabriela’s right. Tweakers have it easy.

  She takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.

  “You do what you have to, right?” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “You got a problem with it?”

  “All things considered, I don’t think I’m in a position to judge.”

  “Oh, right. Forgot who I was talking to there for a second. It’s just that I want to make things better. I keep an autoclave in the bathroom. Fresh needles. Tell them to use that, but they all have their own works, their own little rituals. They never listen. Patty’s so loaded with shit, if she was a normal she’d have died years ago. No telling how long she’ll last.”

  “You can’t save everybody.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what I can and can’t do.” She lightens up. “Words of wisdom from the zombie hitman? I’ll keep it in mind. Darius’ll be happy. He likes Patty.”

  “Then you’ve done your good deed for the day and fed the homeless.” I look at my watch. I’m not hungry, but who knows how long the heart I had last night is going to keep me going. “Speaking of which, I should probably leave.”

  “I’ll have somebody take you to your car,” she says, reconsiders. “Unless you’re going to eat them?”

  “No,” I say. “I think I’m good.” If Darius isn’t just yanking my chain, I’m going to have to figure something out and soon. I don’t like the idea of having to hide more corpses.

  “Remember our deal, Joe.”

  “I will if you will.”

  She walks me to the elevator. Waves at me as I’m going down. Like it’s the end of our first date or something.

  I pick up my car near the airport and head home. I’m about fifteen minutes up the freeway when my phone rings.

  Carl. I fumble it open. “Yeah?”

  If I thought he was freaked out before, he’s completely lost it now.

  “Man, you gotta get over here,” he says, voice ragged. “There’s somebody wants to talk to you. Like, right the fuck now. I think—” And the line goes dead.

  Fuck. I drop the phone, gun the engine. Pray I don’t get there too late.

  Chapter 18

  I hear the yelling through the elevator doors. Hotel guests are losing their minds, poking panicked heads out of rooms to watch the nightmare down the hall.

  The wall opposite Carl’s door is sprayed bright red, lines of it looping up to the ceiling. The door ripped off its hinges. From the inside.

  I flash my fake badge at the nearest security guard, and he almost pisses himself in relief. Finally, somebody with authority showing up to deal with this mess.

  Carl’s on
the floor in shock. A stump where his left arm used to be. A hotel doctor’s tying off a tourniquet.

  I don’t see the arm anywhere. All the furniture has been tossed over, lights on the floor throwing crazy shadows along the walls. The doctor is screaming something.

  I realize it’s me he’s yelling at. I pull myself together. “Put pressure here,” he says, yanking me down to the floor. He shoves my hand over a thick gauze pad that quickly soaks with blood.

  The pillowcase is barely on Carl’s forehead. I pull it tighter.

  Long gashes along his cheeks. Looks like something big with claws raked him across the face. He’s so far gone he doesn’t even recognize me.

  “The hell happened?” I ask the doctor.

  “The fuck should I know,” he says, looking Carl over for more wounds. “I get a call from the front desk saying there’s a panther in here, and somebody’s screaming. I get up here and see this.”

  There’s a commotion in the hall. Security guards letting somebody through.

  Gabriela pokes her head through the doorway. She’s leading a gurney with one of her gangbangers. Both dressed in jeans and blue shirts which have “Hi, My Name Is:” stickers with the word “Paramedic” scrawled on them. The stickers glow a light blue and no one seems to notice that they’re not the real deal.

  She catches sight of me and gives me a what-the-fuck look but doesn’t break character.

  The doctor is barking orders at her. “We’ve got him from here,” she tells the doc in a voice pitched low. There’s a weird harmonic to it just under my hearing.

  “You’ve got him from here,” he says, eyes unfocused.

  She passes a hand over Carl’s body and the convulsions ease, the blood stops. The doctor backs away as they wheel Carl out the door.

  I’m worried Carl’s going to burst into flame as they cross the threshold, but he doesn’t even flicker.

  Gabriela looks over her shoulder and mouths “I’ll call you,” before she disappears down the hall with Carl’s ravaged body.

  I give it a second, start to follow her out. My fake badge isn’t going to stand up to the scrutiny of real cops the way Gabriela’s name tags would.

  I’m at the door when I spot something in the corner. A blood-spattered piece of hotel stationery stuck to the shade of an overturned lamp. In large letters it reads:

  WHERE’S THE STONE, JOE?—GI pick it up before anyone notices and leave.

  That cocksucker. Giavetti thinks I have the stone. Instead of coming at me directly, he’s trying to fucking intimidate me by hitting Carl. Goddammit.

  I don’t give in to guilt. Bad for business. Bad for a lot of things. I take a deep breath. I know it does nothing, but it still feels good to put air in my lungs.

  Fucking Giavetti.

  It isn’t enough I’m in this shit because of him, now he does this. Wants to send me a message, piss me off? He’s sure as shit done a thorough job.

  I’m cleaning blood off my hands in the lobby bathroom when Gabriela calls.

  “That was a neat trick in there,” I say.

  “Thanks. The Force has power over weak minds. It was lucky I headed out just after you left my place. I don’t know if he’d be alive if I’d gotten there any later.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good,” she says. “I mean, you saw him. But he’s not dead yet, and that gives me something to work with. You want to tell me what you were doing there?”

  “He called me just as the shit hit the fan.” I tell her about Giavetti’s note.

  “Dude, you are not a good man to be friends with.”

  I was thinking pretty much the same thing. “Is he awake?”

  “Thankfully no, but he’s not what you’d call resting peacefully. Look, I have to go. I’ve got a Honda minivan that everybody thinks is an ambulance and it takes concentration to keep it up. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “Thanks for doing this,” I say.

  “This is the kind of thing I live for,” she says. “Like I said, I’m a social worker at heart. I’ll call you.” She hangs up.

  I stand there a minute looking at the phone. She’s right. If it hadn’t been for her Carl would be dead.

  If she can keep him alive, maybe she can get something useful out of him. Maybe I can get the stone.

  And Giavetti’s head on a stick.

  The ceiling of the Marriott’s parking garage is covered in insulation foam that swallows up sound. I light up a Marlboro, the scratch of the spark disappearing in the echoless garage.

  Not too many cars, so it’s easy to spot them. Not too many places to hide. Something tells me they want to be seen.

  “Archie,” I say.

  He leans against my car, Jughead on all fours at his feet, the midget’s tailored black suit scuffing on the cement.

  “Mr. Sunday. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Funny, I was just about to say the same to you.”

  “Quite the show upstairs,” he says. “I understand that the police are looking for some sort of wild animal. A panther, I believe, though I overheard one distressed young woman mention a polar bear. Funny how rumors spread, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, funny things. So why are you here, Arch? Checking up on the reporter?”

  “That’s it exactly,” he says. “I understand from Doctor Neumann that you were here earlier. He saw you briefly. I was sent over to see if you had, ah, jarred anything loose.”

  “Nope. I got nothin’, Arch. Now why don’t you let me get into my car, and I’ll let you get along with your evening.”

  Archie makes no move to get out of my way. Settles against my hood a little more, in fact. Crosses his arms. Jughead apes his movements from the floor.

  “I’m curious,” he says. “How did you know to come back to the hotel now? Of all times? In fact, I’m wondering how you knew to come here in the first place. It took Doctor Neumann hours to get a fix on this place, and yet you just happened by. Why is that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “No doubt,” he says. “Would one of those be that young woman passing herself off as a paramedic who carted the reporter away? It’s my job to notice things.”

  Jughead is getting increasingly agitated as Archie gets calmer. It’s weird how much the midget looks like a twisted version of Archie.

  “Is it? If you’d been doing your job a little better in the first place,” I say, looking Archie squarely in the eye, “Neumann wouldn’t be replacing your sorry ass with me, now would he?”

  Archie gazes impassively at me. Jughead, though, that little fucker’s snarling like a trapped wolverine. He moves on me, but Archie gives the leash a quick jerk, snapping the midget back.

  “Wouldn’t want to let that leash slip, now would you?” I say. “Can’t have all those chained-up urges getting loose.”

  “You don’t understand a thing,” Archie says. “You’re a hammer, nothing more. A badly made, poorly used tool. Doctor Neumann is using you, and you’re too stupid to get it. At the end of the day, you don’t matter. When he’s done with you, he’s just going to leave you to rust in the rain.”

  “Wow. That was almost poetic. I’m hurt. Really.”

  “Just go away,” he says. “Slip quietly into some hole, why don’t you? It’ll be easier.”

  I take an inhumanly long draw on my cigarette, put it out on my hand. The skin crackles back, the edges glowing, then fades away as if nothing has happened.

  “Easier than what, Arch? The fuck you think you can do to me?”

  He leans in toward me. “I’ll cut off your head and burn the rest. I’ll stick it in a box with enough maggots to chew your eyeballs out and keep you in pieces. And when I want a laugh, I’ll open the box and piss in your eyeholes.”

  “Good. But it still doesn’t rhyme. I got a better idea.”

  I give a swift kick to Jughead’s skull, punting him across the floor. With a loud squawk, he spins under a Hummer.

  Archie throws a haymaker.
I duck under it easily, give a quick punch to the kidneys. Bring my knee up into his stomach, shove him down. Air blows out of him with a loud gasp, his eyes bug out like a fish’s.

  Before he can get his wind back, I bring both hands down like a hammer onto the back of his neck, bounce his head off the concrete floor. I hear his nose crunch, and I know it’s over.

  Jughead comes toward me. I have my Glock casually pointed at the back of Archie’s head.

  “Don’t,” I say. “I’m not sure you’ll survive if I kill him. You want to find out?”

  Jughead snarls but keeps his distance. I back into my car seat, gun leveled at Archie as he stands up. His eyes are swelling black, dark blood drips from his busted nose.

  “Go home Arch. Get some ice on your face. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  Chapter 19

  It’s funny how some things can crystallize your thoughts.

  With Carl out of commission I’ve got no one I can trust. Just as well. It’s my mess. I’m the only who can get me out.

  The first thing I need to deal with is Giavetti.

  No. It’s not.

  I already know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell me that he can get to me at any time. That much is obvious. Trying to freak me out. Go after friends, family. If I had a cat I probably would have found it nailed to my front door. It’s an old strategy. I’ve done it myself.

  This kind of thing comes from a position of weakness, trying to make it look like strength. Give me this thing or I’ll do this to you. Yeah, and if you could do it to me, you would have already.

  So, why doesn’t he?

  For starters, it’s not like he can hurt me. Torture’s pointless. Shooting me, more so. If he sticks me in a block of cement, I can’t do much talking under eight feet of concrete.

  So he goes after my friends. Only I don’t have any left. He doesn’t have the stone and doesn’t know where it is. So, no, he’s not the number one priority. I’ll kill him later. Once I figure out how.

  What about Neumann? Some old fart who can put eyeballs on people. He’s not a problem. But Archie is. If he didn’t hate me before, he sure as hell does now. I probably should have killed him in the garage.