Blood & Rust

by S. A. Swiniarski

  I knew more about Kane Tyler than I wanted to know.

  I knew almost nothing about who I’d become.

  There weren’t any police in sight out the front. I didn’t really expect any. No one had entered the house during my twelve-hour slumber, and the Cleveland police didn’t have the manpower to waste staking out my house.

  Still, it’d been a stupid risk coming here. I berated myself for not thinking clearly last night. Distressed or not. Memory or not. It was an easy exercise in hindsight to think I should have realized that I’d rented that motel room for some reason.

  I should have left as soon as I’d seen the blood—if the dawn hadn’t trapped me here.

  Risk or not, here I was, and no one knew it. Once I left this place, I wasn’t going to come back. So I gave myself one more hour, to pretend I still lived here.

  Still, I did not turn on any lights, and after checking the front of the house, I avoided windows.

  I went upstairs and showered. I did it mechanically, in the dark. I was cloaked in numbness. I’d felt the panic when I’d fallen from the precipice, but I was in free fall now, and a long way from the bottom. Almost everything had been burned out inside me.

  Too much had happened to me, too much to absorb, too much to react to. But this was the first true pause in which I had time to think. With my rest, the logical part of my mind started working again.

  Childe was central to a cult, a circle of youths that were into dark rituals that offended even people who were into the occult. I remembered only fragments of my investigation, but I could remember that the distaste for Childe was universal throughout the whole neo-pagan community.

  I remembered another odd fact now. Within the neo-pagan community, with their elaborate taxonomy of belief systems separating wiccan from druid from followers of the Golden Dawn, and with their disparagement of Satanism as a uniquely Christian perversion, not one of the pagans or fringe-pagans I had talked to had given me even a tentative classification of what Childe actually practiced. They classified him: predatory, sadistic, cold, charismatic, and in many cases, evil, but they never classified his belief system. It was as if they never even heard any rumors of what it was he did.

  “Childe runs a tight little group,” I whispered as I left the bathroom. I said it, but it did not jibe with what Childe’s cult seemed to be doing now.

  They had killed my ex-wife in a manner almost designed to call attention to itself, killed in a manner that would club the police over the head with its ritualism.

  With my healing memory, I was almost certain I could place the leather-clad teenager at last night’s collision at the “sacrifice” I had videotaped. His face had been the one to smile at me.

  Childe’s group was low-key enough to work for years around the fringes of the pagan community without once leaking any hint of its internal structure. That didn’t fit with Kate’s death or ramming Sam’s car.

  I had worked with cults before; it goes with the territory. And a true cult is almost always organized around a central charismatic figure. Because of that, because they’re an extension of its leader’s personality, cults don’t change their behavior very often. And if they’re inner-directed, they do their best to cut off the outside world almost completely.

  I was beginning to understand why I’d been talking to Sam. I had had these thoughts before, and they had led me to the same conclusion. I needed to find out Childe’s history.

  And now this investigation wasn’t just a matter of finding Sebastian’s daughter, Cecilia. It was a matter of finding myself.

  “Yes,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, “We had a Detective Weinbaum here. But his injuries were minor. He was released after twelve hours of observation.”

  “Thank you,” I said to the receptionist, and hung up.

  University Hospitals had been the second place I’d called after the Cleveland Clinic. At least they’d given me good news. It was bad enough that I had Tony on my conscience, I did not need to find out that I’d somehow worsened Sam’s condition.

  I sat on the edge of my bed in a darkened room, holding a phone on my lap. I could see perfectly well by the light from the streetlight outside. Everything was blue-gray and black, a gloom that choked the room like smoke but somehow didn’t obscure my vision.

  I’d gotten dressed in the dark, so no one would notice my house being occupied. I now wore a tie and a black suit, with shoes to match. Not my first choice, but it was clean. On the bed next to me lay my gun, my old clothes, and an old tan trench coat I’d found in the closet.

  An address book sat on a table next to the bed, and I flipped through it. When I reached my daughter’s phone number, I read it with the strange déjà vú of seeing a number that I hadn’t known I’d memorized. I wondered again how long things would taunt me with their familiarity.

  I dialed the phone before thinking of what I would say. It rang four times.

  “Please, Gail, answer....”

  After the fifth ring I heard Gail’s voice. “Hey! You have reached—me. If you’re calling for someone else, you’ve gotten a wrong number. Otherwise say something at the beep.”

  The receiver was shaking in my hand. I could see her face as I heard her voice on the machine. I pictured her smiling, with her freckles and her mother’s long red hair. So much of her mother in her, except her eyes. Even as a baby, everyone had said she had her father’s green eyes.

  After a long pause, the beep surprised me. I had to gather myself to leave a message. “Gail? It’s Dad. If you’re there, pick up the phone. If not, I’ll do what I can to call you back tomorrow.” What could I say to a machine? “When I call you again, it’ll probably be late. I’m sorry, I know you have classes, but I can’t really avoid it. Good-bye.”

  I set the receiver back in the cradle. I tried not to feel the press of worry, but it was too late. It wasn’t something I’d ever been rational about. I had always been overprotective, and every time I had a nasty missing-person’s case, even after the divorce, I always had to reassure myself about Gail.

  Sam said he had gotten her police protection, and she’s in Oberlin, far away from all of this.

  But it was 7:30 on a Sunday. Where was she?

  I told myself that she was at a movie, or was out with friends, or in the shower....

  “Stop doing this to yourself,” I whispered to myself. “You do this every time you get her machine—”

  I smiled, because I was right, and I could remember it, at least partially. But recognizing it as rote paranoia didn’t change the fact that there was a real danger out there—a real danger that I still knew woefully little about.

  I had rebuilt some sense of self out of my amnesia, but I was remembering generalities. I still had little or no memory of specific facts or events. Especially frustrating was the gap between the eleventh and the fourteenth, the three days between Kate’s death and my waking in the storm sewer—

  My God, who’s doing the funeral arrangements? Have they done it already? The cops would have to have the body for autopsy, but that’d be done by now....

  “Monday, if they haven’t held it already. Maybe Tuesday at the latest—”

  I realized that I wanted to be there—and if I couldn’t face daylight, I couldn’t be.

  I stood up and walked to the windows, staring out the blinds at the streetlight. I took deep, unnecessary breaths. My attention was scattering when I needed to think straight. I still carried the phone. I had one call left to make.

  I pulled Gabriel’s card out of my pocket. Here, at least, I might have some answers to the darkness that had claimed my life. If nothing else, even if he was completely insane, Gabriel knew something of Childe—and Childe was central to everything that had happened to me.

  The card had a single gold embossed number upon it, and when I called it I received a nasal computer-generated voice.

  “You have reached an automated voice messaging system. At the sound of the beep, speak your own name slowly and
clearly. If your response is unclear or unacceptable, you will be disconnected.”

  The machine beeped at me.

  “Kane Tyler,” I spoke slowly. I was nonplussed at dealing with a machine, but it did seem to fit with someone who wouldn’t put any identification on a business card.

  The machine digested my response, and after an electronic pop I heard Gabriel’s voice, Southern accent and all. “Greetings, I am pleased you decided to call me—”

  “Yes, I—” I started to say, when I realized that this message was as automated as the computer. Gabriel had recorded a message for me. I sighed.

  “—assume you wish to meet with me,” the recording continued. “At twelve this evening I shall be awaiting you at the address embossed upon the card. If this is inconvenient, please leave a message for me. I await the pleasure of your company, sir.”

  Midnight, three hours to kill before I talked to him. I sighed again.

  The computer voice returned. “To replay this message, press one. To reply to this message, press two. To—” I hung up.

  Three hours, which gave me time to find Sam and ask him a few questions—especially about Childe’s history. I set the phone back on the nightstand, and pocketed my address book.

  Outside I heard a car slow and turn up a driveway.

  My driveway.

  I grabbed the Eagle from where it lay on the bed, amidst my old clothes. I heard the engine idle, and I heard a car door open and slam shut. I edged up to the bedroom window, but it didn’t offer me a view of the driveway, the roof of the porch was in the way.

  I could hear the car, though, almost feel its presence.

  I backed out of the bedroom, grabbing the holster and the trenchcoat with my free arm. It looked as if I might be leaving fairly shortly. When I’d backed into the hall, I could hear someone messing with the front door downstairs.

  Who was it? The police?

  I slipped into Gail’s old room, so I’d have an overview of the driveway.

  A wave of disorientation flooded me, making me realize I’d been too comfortable with my returning memory. I had stepped into her room expecting a bed with a flowered comforter, and shelves of ceramic animals that she had made. My memory had laid a nasty trap, I didn’t realize I was expecting the little multicolored dragons and horses until I had bumped into the first pile of filing boxes that was stored here.

  The box fell with a rustle, spilling 1993 over the bare hardwood. Dust balls flew away from the impact like frightened mice.

  “Fuck,” I whispered. I had to be more careful. Assuming that I knew something could be more dangerous than ignorance.

  I froze, listening for a reaction. Below me, I heard the front door opening. I heard footsteps. I could almost swear that I could hear someone breathing—

  The breathing wasn’t me, I had stopped when the car pulled into the driveway.

  Whatever else this darkness had done to me—whether it was madness or a supernatural affliction—it did grant me an acuteness of sense that I knew I had not possessed before. I could picture the shoes of the man who tread below me, I heard their rubber soles on the hardwood, and I heard the change when he stepped upon the carpet. I heard his breathing, steady but elevated, the breathing of a man tense but not yet excited.

  I heard his footstep upon the stair, and if I concentrated, I could hear the beating of his heart.

  The door was closed behind me, but I’d know when my visitor was behind it. I leveled the gun at the doorway and backed next to the window. Outside the window, I could hear a dog barking, and distant traffic. One of my neighbors was watching television. I heard canned laughter.

  I glanced down through the blinds. Parked, idling in the driveway, was a familiar tan Oldsmobile.

  How did Sebastian find me?

  The phone, it had to be the phone. I had been working for this man for two weeks. He was rich, and he was driven. He had hired me and had me followed. I had no trouble believing that he might have tapped my phone as well.

  “Damn it, for once we’re on the same side,” I whispered.

  There was one driver. I could see a flash of pale skin and I decided that he was Mr. Gestapo. The one walking up the hallway toward me had to be the Jamaican. They’d cornered me.

  I glanced at the window and thought of the teenager who had somehow landed on top of Sam’s car. I drew the blinds on the window, and opened it.

  I knew the Jamaican now stood without the door.

  My exit was blocked by an old storm window. When I heard the doorknob rattle, I raised my foot and kicked at the bottom of the storm window’s wooden frame. The window swung out, hinging at the top where hooks still held it in place. But those fasteners were over forty years old, and I heard metal snap, liberating an explosion of paint flakes.

  After that snap, gravity took the window and it slid down like the blade of a guillotine.

  Behind me I heard the door burst open and a Jamaican voice said, “Stop, Mr. Tyier—”

  I’d already jumped out the window. Below me, the ancient storm window crashed into the hood of the Oldsmobile. The wood splintered, and glass exploded like a crystal grenade. The crash was like an explosion.

  It had been Mr. Gestapo’s first clue that something was wrong.

  My jump ended half a second after the window’s impact. Mr. Gestapo had only time to open the door when my feet hit the hood of the Olds. The impact felt as if it had broken both my shins, and had torn every one of my leg muscles from the bone. I should have collapsed and rolled off the hood, but I kept my balance, and I managed to unbend my knees.

  I pointed my Eagle through the windshield and said, “Get out.”

  By now he had a gun out as well, but he looked at me and froze. He stared at me long enough that I had to repeat myself.

  “Get out.”

  Slowly, he backed out of the car. Above me, I heard the Jamaican say, “Stop this, Mr. Tyler!”

  I looked up and saw the Jamaican holding his own gun down on me. I stepped off the hood, continuing to cover Mr. Gestapo. I smiled up at the Jamaican. “I’m afraid I am going to have to borrow your car.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  I looked down at Mr. Gestapo and said, “You really want to drop that.” He did as he was told.

  I looked up at the man covering me. “You have a name?” I asked.

  “My name is Bishop, Mr. Tyler.” He called down and I could see his breath fog. He didn’t seem nervous or out of breath, unlike his partner. “I’m afraid you have to come with us.”

  “Odd name for one of Sebastian’s hoods,” I said.

  Bishop smiled at the remark, his gun didn’t waver. “And you, Mr. Tyler, have an odd name for a policeman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wasn’t Cain the first murderer?”

  I shook my head. “Well, Bishop, have you thought out the logistics of this situation?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your man down here is covered, and you are two stories above me. I see three options open to you. You let me take the car. You shoot me now. Or we stand here for an hour until the police show up and you explain a B&E on my property.”

  “Why do you think I won’t shoot you?”

  I looked up at him, “Because I’m looking for your boss’ daughter, still. I am doing my job, and I can’t do my job if I am attached to you guys at the hip!”

  I could almost feel the options running through Bishop’s mind. Eventually, I heard him say, “Go, but don’t think this will happen again.”

  I smiled grimly and walked to the side of the Olds. I told Bishop’s friend to get down on the ground, and I took his gun and tossed it in the car with my coat and my holster.

  The key was still in the ignition.

  It was a pain getting out of the driveway one-handed. But I wasn’t putting down the Eagle until I was out of sight of the house.

  12

  Sam lived on the East Side, so on the way I stopped the Olds at a BP statio
n downtown. I chose my vantage carefully, to be in sight of the approach from the police station and be a short U-turn from the I-90 on-ramp. I didn’t want to be cornered again.

  The police station was an old sandstone building. Pollution had turned the walls black. If not for the fluorescent lights shining through the windows, it wouldn’t be out of place on an English moor.

  It was early in the evening, quarter to nine, but it was Sunday and the traffic on St. Clair, between me and the station, was light. I idled next to the pay-phone and rolled down the window. Despite parking myself where I had an easy escape route, the black-and-whites made me nervous.

  I dialed Sam’s apartment and didn’t get an answer, so I dialed the station.

  After a couple of rings I heard, “Detective Weinbaum here.”

  “Hi, Sam. We need to talk.”

  “Goddamn it,” Sam’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I told you not to call me here. Where the fuck did you disappear to?”

  “My employer offered me a ride. I need what you have on Childe.”

  Sam’s voice lowered. “Are you seriously still in this? After I saw you last time—”

  “I’m handling that, Sam.”

  “Okay. Where are you?”

  “Look out your window.”

  Sam ran across the street, a folder under his arm. I let him in and pulled the Olds in a quick U around the BP parking lot. The green-lit logo was receding down the on-ramp behind us before Sam asked. “What the hell’s going on, Kane?”

  “I’m trying to find out—”

  “No, I mean with you. Yesterday you were a basket case. You were shaking and asking for a doctor. I was scared shitless that you’d wandered off on your own after the accident, the Heights cops have a bulletin to look out for you, and I’m in no end of shit because I have to explain how you were in my car in the first place—” Sam had to stop to breathe.

  He didn’t sound too good, and I looked at him. His nose was buried under a pound of gauze, his skin was pale, which made the shadows of his bruised eyes even more violent.