The Neon Boneyard

by Craig Schaefer

  “Cute kid,” I said. Hell with that. She was perfect. She was family.

  “I gotta ask,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “I tried to reach out to you, too. Couple of times. You were beyond off the grid. It took me a while, but eventually I figured out you wanted it that way. Then I found this guy, Jud Pankow. He told me his granddaughter had been murdered and you…fixed it for him.”

  “People say a lot of things.”

  “Then I tried again, and—” Teddy paused. He looked behind him, then hustled a little farther along the sidewalk, waving me close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Dan, you were in prison. And then they said you were dead, that you died in that riot. Do you know you have a tombstone, in a potter’s field? I left flowers there.”

  “Hence the new name. And it’s really, really important that you keep the old one out of your mouth, all right?”

  “Sure. Right. Of course.” He stared at my shoes. “I never knew you even tried looking for me. I didn’t expect you to.”

  “What? Because of what went down? Teddy, c’mon. I never blamed you for that.”

  He met my gaze then. I could see him forcing himself to do it. His neck muscles strained like steel cables.

  “I sold you out. I lied.”

  “You were a scared kid, and Dad’s lawyer told you that you were going home with him at the end of the day, no matter what you said on the stand.”

  Teddy’s cheeks tightened in disgust. “Didn’t understand until years later that he was full of shit, just trying to scare me into backing Dad’s story. I could have saved you if I’d told the truth. I could have saved us both.”

  “Exactly. You didn’t know, you didn’t understand, and you were eight years old. You were never in my bad books. If you need me to say I forgive you…Teddy, I forgive you. It happened. We survived.”

  I took a breath and sighed it out one side of my mouth. There are some things you don’t want to know, but you have to ask.

  “Dad?”

  “Seven years ago,” Teddy said.

  “Cirrhosis?”

  “Pneumonia. Can you believe it? The booze didn’t get him, a bad flu did.”

  I took that in. My father was dead.

  I’d known he had to be, realistically, statistically, given the way the man lived from drink to drink. Maybe that was why I never went looking. Or maybe I was afraid I’d find out he was still alive, and then I’d start feeling like I had to do something about it.

  But my father was dead, and he’d been in the ground for seven years now. I wondered if violent schizophrenics went to hell, if whatever machinery governed the cosmos held them responsible for their crimes, or if the bad wiring in their brains gave them a get-out-of-damnation-free card. Maybe I’d ask Caitlin sometime. Maybe I’d be happier not knowing.

  “We buried him up at Colewood,” my brother said. “Five people came to the funeral, and nobody really wanted to be there.”

  My face went hot. “Colewood? Jesus, Teddy.”

  “The plot and the headstone were already paid for—”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be buried next to Mom. That’s fucking obscene and you know it.”

  “It was paid for,” he snapped, throwing my anger back at me. “I’m not exactly made of money, okay? And you weren’t there. I had to handle everything on my own, and pretend to be the grieving son when I would have been fine tossing his evil ass in a burlap sack and dumping it in the trash. You weren’t there.”

  His shoulders sagged as his fury drained away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve—”

  “Yes. I did. You’re not wrong.”

  “Geez.” He kicked his toe against the curb. “Still brothers, huh? Peas in a pod.”

  “Still brothers.”

  “So, the stuff they said about you.” He hedged, slow, working his way to the question. “I mean, when you were in prison, the things they said you did. So you’re some kind of…”

  “You can say it,” I told him.

  Our eyes met. “Gangster?”

  “That’s a word for it. Let me put it this way: remember back in the day, when we’d boost food from that 7-Eleven down the street? You’d distract the clerk while I loaded up the backpack?”

  Teddy looked to the sky and let out a sound somewhere between an empty laugh and a sigh. He put his hands on his hips.

  “Of course,” he said. “That was the only way we got any food at all, some nights.”

  “Turns out I’ve got a talent for taking things that don’t belong to me. And I believe a person should play to their natural strengths.”

  He laughed again, this time with some affection behind it. “Do I even want to know why you were in Mayor Seabrook’s office?”

  “Believe it or not, doing my civic duty. Sometimes it takes a bad guy to catch a bad guy.”

  “That I don’t believe.”

  “Oh, it’s true,” I said. “Let’s just say I have access to avenues of information that the cops don’t.”

  “No. Not that part. I don’t believe that you’re a bad guy.”

  Sweet, innocent Teddy. I could have shown him where the literal bodies were buried. I could have led him to a river of blood, my arms washed elbows deep in it. After all that, he’d probably still say the same. It was nice to have someone who believed in your better nature, even when you knew they were wrong.

  “So,” I said. “Security, huh?”

  “Playing to my natural strengths, I guess. Ex-military and all that. It pays the bills, and it beats being stuck in an office all day.”

  “I hear that.”

  The conversation faded as we both worked toward the same question. He asked it first.

  “So what now?”

  “Now? Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I assume you’ve got to get back to work. And we shouldn’t be seen talking in public because officially you don’t know me—”

  “But after?” He studied me, head tilted, pensive. He looked like a kid trying to find the confidence to ask a girl to prom. “Still brothers?”

  “I’d like that,” I told him.

  “Would you…want to come around sometime? Dinner or something? You’ve got a sister-in-law and a niece you haven’t met yet.”

  I hadn’t been expecting the invitation. I figured we’d end this with a polite exchange of phone numbers before slipping out of each other’s lives again.

  “Is that okay?” I asked him. “Teddy, you know what I do for a living.”

  “Well, don’t tell them that. Just…make something up. You used to be good at that.”

  “I’m still pretty good at it.”

  He reached out and took hold of my arm.

  “I want you in my life,” he said. “We can’t make up for lost time, but we can start fresh, maybe.”

  We exchanged numbers. We went our separate ways. I cracked the car door to let the heat out and stood there and marveled at life for a little while. As I got behind the wheel, reality sawed through the wonder like a serrated knife.

  I had a list of enemies as long as my arm, and any one of them would love to get their hands on my long-lost brother. They’d snatch him for leverage or just hurt him to hurt me. My recent promotion and induction into the courts of hell, where a stab in the back was how most people said hello, added a fresh layer of trouble to the mix. The best, smartest thing I could do—for Teddy and for myself—was to keep my brother as far away from me as humanly possible. Cut him off, change my phone number, disappear.

  But I wasn’t going to.

  I was only human, and a chance to reconnect with Teddy—after my father and the world had torn us apart—was a treasure I couldn’t forsake. So I’d find a way to make this work.

  The undercarriage of the Elantra rattled again as I pulled out onto the street. I set the dashboard GPS for the rental place, and then I called Pixie.

  “You found another Network safe house?” she said. “Already?”

  “No, just wo
ndering if my car’s popped up anywhere.”

  “Seriously? That’s what you’re calling me about?”

  “I miss my car,” I said.

  “So go buy another one.”

  “It’s a painstakingly rebuilt 1970 Hemi Cuda,” I said. “It’s not a Honda Civic. You can’t just ‘buy another one.’”

  “I’ve got feelers out, okay? I’m doing my best.”

  “That’s all I ask—” I paused as the phone beeped. “Hold on, I’ve got another call coming in.”

  I tapped the screen, and an unwelcome voice growled in my ear.

  “You shouldn’t have made fun of me,” Grimm said.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “When a man is challenged to a fight, he stands up and answers.”

  “I did answer,” I told him, “and my answer is ‘you’re ridiculous.’ That answer still stands, by the way.”

  “I’m going to expose you for the craven weakling you really are.”

  I sighed. “Look, what did you call yourself? Huffington Goofyman?”

  “Hunter. MacGregor. Grimm.”

  “That’s what I said. Bottom line is, I just don’t have time to deal with you right now. I’m supposed to be getting ready for a fight with a guy who is A, actually dangerous, and B, actually has a reason to want to kill me. It’s a lousy reason, but that’s more than you’ve got.”

  “Too bad he’ll never get the chance,” Grimm replied. “Bang. You’re dead.”

  I stepped on the gas and wove through the midmorning traffic. I took Grimm seriously enough to cast an eye toward the rooftops on either side of the street, watching for the telltale glint of a riflescope catching the sunlight. If he was good enough to get my number, he was good enough to track my movements. All the same, there were a dozen directions I could have left city hall from, and the possibilities exploded with every intersection I passed.

  I shouldn’t have been nervous. And yet.

  “I’m driving forty miles an hour,” I said, keeping my tone light even as my nerves trilled like warning bells. “You’d have to be one hell of a sniper to hit me through the windshield, assuming you even know what street I’m going to take and have time to set up a perch before I get there.”

  Grimm chuckled. It was a long, slow, raspy sound, and entirely too confident for my liking.

  “People always make that mistake,” he said.

  “Which one?”

  “Thinking the word ‘bang’ implies a bullet.”

  The undercarriage of the sedan rattled again. Louder this time.

  29.

  Horns screamed as I spun the wheel hard. The Elantra lurched, swerving between lanes. I slammed against the seatbelt as my front wheel hit the curb, the car jumping, screeching to a stop halfway onto the sidewalk. Grimm’s laughter burst over the phone, giddy and mad, the sound like electric claws raking down my spine. I snapped the belt open, threw open the door, and jumped out with the engine still running.

  The sidewalk behind me was clear. A few people were walking up from the other direction, curious now, and I flailed my hands as I broke into an all-out sprint. “Stay back!” I shouted. “Don’t come any—”

  The bomb under the sedan erupted and painted the world in jagged streaks of hot white. A fist of concussive force slammed into my back and threw me to the pavement while metal screamed louder than thunder. The sound was a physical force, penetrating flesh and bone, reverberating in my ears and blotting out the power to think. I lay there, stunned, my shirt torn and my left arm scraped bloody on the pavement.

  A shower of sparks and ash drifted down in a lazy, silent rain, kissing the scorched earth.

  I wasn’t sure how long it took before I was able to move again. My hearing slowly swam back. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the endlessly echoing blast faded, replaced by car horns and distant sirens.

  My phone buzzed in my hand. Private number. Had to be Grimm, calling back. I didn’t pick up. Let him wonder if I was dead or alive.

  I damn well knew which category he’d fall under, once I got my hands on him.

  * * *

  First things first. Damage control.

  I limped off down an alley, waving off a couple of good Samaritans and putting some distance between me and the pile of twisted, smoking debris that used to be my ride. I made two phone calls. The first call was to Jennifer; I needed a pickup, fast. I also needed someone to hop onto the police and paramedic radio bands. I was pretty sure I’d bailed in a clear spot, that no bystanders had gone up in the blast, but I wanted to know for sure. My second call was to Pixie. I gave her a five-second recap.

  “So you need the Avis rental database scrubbed,” she said. “Got it. Why would you rent a car under your own name, anyway? I mean, your own fake name.”

  “Building credit. I’m trying to give ‘Paul Emerson’ a credible paper trail in case anyone ever pokes into his life, which entails buying and renting a lot of stuff as him. Which works great, until someone starts blowing up the aforementioned stuff. I don’t think the standard insurance covers ‘acts of mad bomber.’”

  “I’m on it. Pix out.”

  A ragtop sedan with battered, Bondo-patched doors rumbled along the street. A couple of Calles bangers were up front and I dove in the back, stretching out along the vinyl bench seat. Partly to keep my face out of sight, just in case the first cops on the scene were working faster than usual, but mostly because I really, really needed to lie down for a minute.

  Once the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving a jittery, empty ache in my veins, I was able to do a self-assessment. Wriggling toes, bending joints, checking for damage. I knew a guy who had been shot in a botched smash-and-grab once and didn’t know it until half an hour later; he tried to scratch a nagging itch and chipped a fingernail on the slug in his back.

  I’d gotten off easy by comparison. The scrapes along my left forearm were ugly to look at and stung like I’d dunked my arm in scalding water, but I’d only sacrificed a little skin. My knee twinged when I bent it, but I could walk that off. The injury to my pride would take longer to heal.

  I still thought I’d made the right move at Winter, refusing to duel with this chump. My mistake had been thinking he’d slink off with his tail between his legs and that’d be the end of it. Whatever his malfunction was, he was bound and determined to come at me, and he’d keep coming until I shut him down for good.

  I told the Calles to run me over to East Harmon Avenue. Winter wasn’t far away—and neither was the parking garage where I’d left my rental on the night of the party. I walked in on foot, past the automated ticket box and glossy yellow swing-arm, and into the gallery of silent cars.

  Jennifer met me there, and Caitlin wasn’t far behind. Cait pulled me close. Her eyes narrowed, suddenly venomous, staring at my shredded and rust-spotted sleeve.

  “He dies,” she said.

  I crouched in an empty parking spot, the concrete spattered with dried oil stains. From there, I looked to the rafters and the bare, industrial girders that laced the boxy garage like steel bones.

  “That’s a given,” I said. “So, this is where I parked the night of the party. I didn’t notice the rattling sound under the car until the next morning, so I think this is where he planted the bomb. Do you see any security cameras?”

  They joined me in the search and came up empty. I had parked in a blind spot.

  “He came to the party late,” I said. “Good chance he stopped here first. Must have been watching me for a while, so he knew what car to look for. If he had a few minutes, uninterrupted, it’d be easy enough to slap something crude to the undercarriage.”

  Caitlin tapped her chin with a fingertip, following the timeline. “So you think he rigged your vehicle, then came and challenged you to a duel? Why?”

  “Fail-safe, maybe?” Jennifer said. “We don’t know if the bomb was triggered remotely or if it was on a timer. Could be he set it on a long timer, figuring that if you beat him at the party, he’d get ya from beyond the grave
. So what do you know about this weirdo, anyway?”

  “Very little,” Caitlin replied. “I put out some discreet feelers after the party, but no court seems willing to claim him. Not surprising. The one thing we know for certain is that he’s a cambion, and my court is one of the few that doesn’t consider half-bloods a step above literal vermin.”

  We walked back to the garage entrance together. I spotted the gray nozzle of a camera pointed square at the gate.

  “I know that he’s got some very unlucky timing,” I said.

  Jen glanced my way. “How do you figure?”

  “Because with Elmer Donaghy in Paris and the Network’s plans on hold, the dumb bastard just made himself my one and only dance partner. He’s earned my undivided attention.” I gestured to the camera. “And if he did plant the bomb during the party, there’s a good chance somebody caught him coming and going. Let’s find the manager and ask.”

  The on-site manager was a bloated slug in a beer-stained tank top and jeans, squeezed into a tiny office behind a lopsided and broken-legged desk. A small bank of monitors showed grainy, flickering views of the garage entrances and exits.

  “We need to see last night’s surveillance footage,” I told him.

  He looked at me like I’d come in off the street and asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. “Who’s ‘we’? You ain’t with the company.”

  I was deciding whether I was going to play nice or start bouncing him off the walls to relieve my pent-up irritation, when Jennifer caught the look in my eyes. She gently nudged me aside and stepped up to the desk.

  “Let me, sugar.” She looked at the manager and took out her wallet—white leather, with western fringe—then peeled off a couple of hundreds. She slapped the cash down on the desk. Her side, just out of his reach.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  “That’s what we’re payin’ you for access to that security-cam footage. Two hundred dollars, nonnegotiable. Now, you can take the money and have yourself a good time tonight. Or”—she pulled back her utility jacket and showed him her pistol, snug in a calfskin holster—“I can introduce the butt of this roscoe to your skull a half dozen times, and you can spend that money on stitches down at the ER when you wake up. Either way, you’re taking the money, and we’re getting that footage. Do we have a deal?”