The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  It didn’t matter. In a decisively accurate and sequential order, each of them met their end, Michiko’s sword cutting downwards to the left, catching the first cat before it could leap up, then across her body, through the torsos of each of the next three, before slicing upwards at a nearly impossible angle to catch the final two. Each cat, when struck down, erupted into a fiery blaze of lava-like paste before they disappeared.

  The response from the rest of the herd was instantaneous: they began to growl in high-pitched cries, the collective sound building to a deafening level. Father Soltera covered his ears and winced, but Michiko, with one hand committed to her sword, could only cover one ear and so was left at a disadvantage.

  The attack that came next was from all sides and was overwhelming.

  A sea of claws made their way up Father Soltera’s back. Stumbling forward, he screamed and tried to pull one of the cats off his neck, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Michiko’s sword was continuing to wreak havoc. She was cutting down dozens of cats, but the tide was overwhelming. Two of the hanging bodies from a tree to their right began laughing and convulsing, their feet swinging in some sort of perverse excitement, as if they were clowns on strings.

  Father Soltera did his best to fight off the cats, but before long he could feel the razor cuts in the flesh of his scalp and his hands, which were his only weapons but were now enlisted in a feeble attempt to protect his face.

  He fell to one knee as about twenty cats reached Michiko and began crawling up her clothes. She glanced at Father Soltera and then seemed to reach some sort of decision within herself. Stepping quickly forward, she swung her sword up, behind her back and around, and gripping the handle with two hands, stabbed the blade directly down into the ground.

  A wave of blue energy crackled across the entire ground and then . . . gravity was defied.

  Instantly, a violent whoosh filled the air and everything—the cats, rocks, sticks, pebbles, chunks of sod with dead grass roots—was rendered weightless and floated upwards, three to four feet off the ground, before their ascent was slowed to a crawl. Even Father Soltera, though heavier than any rock or cat, felt himself rise a few inches off the ground.

  Meanwhile, Michiko plucked off each one of the cats that had managed to attach themselves to her and stabbed them out of existence.

  The bodies were no longer amused. They began screaming in long, desperate wails.

  Wiping a trickle of blood off his forehead, Father Soltera felt a cat still clinging to the side of his clothes. He reached down, grabbed it violently and flung it away, then watched incredulously as it spun through the air with mews of confusion, arms and legs spread outward in an attempt to grip at something, anything, to avoid its weightlessness.

  The only thing still firmly rooted to the ground was Michiko. Free of her attackers, she sidestepped swiftly across the meadow and began pulling Father Soltera by the hand, like a balloon.

  “W-w-what’s happening?” Father Soltera was finally able to stammer.

  “Never mind, tomodachi. It will not last long. We must go. Now.”

  By the time they made their way to the upslope, Father Soltera’s weight had returned and his balance established as his feet swung down. He began to run beside her, still holding her hand, afraid like a child to let go. Because their path was taking them closer to more of the horrid, screaming, rotting hanging bodies.

  Upon reaching the top of the slope, a vast, slightly more plush forest was revealed to them. Whatever wood rot or disease had completely wiped out the forest behind them was still present, but now only in sections. Miles in the distance, the forest was completely green. Somehow, Father Soltera knew that the further away from The Hanging Forest they got, the better off they’d be, and he was just beginning to believe they were going to get away when he heard it: a woman’s voice cresting through the forest, faint at first, then louder.

  Father Soltera recognized it immediately. “Maggie?” he shouted. Michiko tried to quiet him, but he shouted again. “Maggie!”

  He tripped and stumbled into a boulder as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. How was Maggie here? Where was she? What was she saying?

  Reality doubled over, damp and dirty, like a used dishtowel, and he struggled to meld the two worlds he was still a part of together somehow.

  He’d been attacked in that last world and—

  Sorrow flooded him as he remembered the man he was, the man who hunted pheasant as a child with his uncles, graduated with honors from college, buried his father on a barren hill in South Dakota and then taken his vows at the seminary in Michigan and commenced wandering through the lives of those who so desperately needed help.

  He was a different man now. But he hadn’t forgotten. When last he was in the place before this place, there was a precious young woman with a baby in her belly and an evil man out to get her.

  Luisa!

  “Maggie! Get to Luisa!”

  Incredibly, the Fire-Belly Cats had regrouped . . . and multiplied. The sky began to darken even more, and as the creatures came at them, Michiko, looking confused by Maggie’s voice and Father Soltera’s screams, moved to confront them again, her long sword lifted sideways across her chest as she pulled her tanto blade.

  But they were so outnumbered now, yellow and red blinking eyes filling the trees and weaving through the grass and ferns, that it looked hopeless again . . .

  . . . before Maggie’s voice returned.

  He heard her, but not completely. She’d said something . . . Biblical . . . something . . . it was . . .

  When it hit him, Father Soltera was so shocked that he stepped back from the boulder he was leaning against and noticed with stunned amazement that the word, glowing white, had been scorched into the stone.

  SELAH.

  “Selah,” he said, curious but without questioning.

  And the Fire-Belly Cats began to cry out in pain.

  Detective Ivy caught up with Maggie just as she exited the ICU doors back out into the lobby. “Ms. Kincaid, I still need the information for the shelter.”

  “No worries,” Detective Hopkins said as he stepped toward them. “It’s Eden Hill Women’s Shelter, isn’t that right, Ms. Kincaid?” His eyes were smiling.

  “How did—” Maggie began, but he cut her off.

  “Father Soltera’s church secretary called right after you went in and gave me all the information. We can send a unit over there shortly if you want, Bob,” Hopkins said to Ivy.

  “Well. We should’ve already done it, considering everything. Why the delay?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay with it?”

  He was lying, Maggie could tell, beyond a shadow of a doubt. And that’s when something occurred to her. She maybe wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but if Father Soltera was this desperate to hide Luisa it was probably equally due to the threat of Luisa’s uncle, the gang leader, as it was to the threat of Felix.

  And if this Güero Martinez guy was as powerful as Luisa and her mother let on, then he might be powerful enough to have friends in all sorts of places.

  Including the police.

  The idea snapped into place with a tight fit.

  Shit! Maggie thought. What now?

  She had all sorts of ideas in just a few seconds, but none of them were worth the effort. “Yes. That’s correct,” Maggie said, locking eyes with Hopkins. She wanted to add, If she hasn’t been moved yet. But she stopped herself short. Why tell him that? If he was a dirty cop, then he’d only tip off the other side that Luisa was going to be moved and Maggie would lose whatever tactical advantage she had left.

  This situation could still be salvaged if she could get out of here and call Tonya.

  “I’m going to head out now,” Maggie said.

  “Are you headed to the shelter?” Hopkins asked.

  “Yes,” Maggie lied. “I have a few errands to run but I should be there in an hour or so.” She looked from Hopkins to Ivy. “If you need me, you can call
me.”

  “Yes. Sure. Thanks for your time, Ms. Kincaid.”

  She nodded at them both and then took the elevator down to the main entrance. She was no sooner out of the hospital than she was on her cell phone and calling Tonya, who answered on the third ring. “Hi, Maggie.”

  “Tonya, hey. Are you at the shelter?”

  “Yeah. She’s all packed up. Poor thing. But she’s ready.”

  Maggie hesitated. She was taking a big chance here.

  “Tonya? Can you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  Maggie took a deep breath and exhaled. “Can you get Luisa out of there and meet me off-site?”

  Tonya sounded stunned. “What?”

  “I know it’s an unusual request. But I have a very bad feeling that her location has been compromised.”

  “How?”

  Truth. Lies. The words that wormed their way in between. Here she was again, in that gray place trying to work the angles. Maggie shook her head. She thought these days were behind her. “The police have it. The church gave it out to them, and who knows who else, after Father Soltera was attacked.”

  A few seconds of silence followed, then Tonya replied calmly, “That’s just great.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Tonya sighed into the phone. “Dammit. Okay. I’ll get out of here with her now. No more talking. Public place for the exchange. Eighth and Figueroa. There’s a large parking lot across from the Eighth Street Marketplace. I park there with my husband when we go to the Lakers games. My car will be along the fence line by Eighth Street. You know which one, right?”

  “Gray Toyota.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “In twenty.”

  “Got it.”

  They hung up simultaneously and Maggie double-timed it to her car, her legs feeling weak. Where Tonya was going to want Maggie to take Luisa to next was anyone’s guess. It could be the shelter in Eagle Rock or maybe one of their sister shelters further away, in Cerritos or Palmdale. Whichever. But would either of them be any safer? Once the police were involved, with Detective Hopkins eavesdropping on everything, there might not be any way to keep Luisa safe.

  You need to pump your brakes with all the paranoia about Hopkins. You don’t know anything for sure. Yeah, he’s creepy, but he also seemed to be all about asserting his authority over you. For all you know, that’s this idiot’s way of flirting or something.

  Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter now. All that did matter was getting to Eighth and Figueroa as soon as possible.

  Chapter Eleven

  Parker had dropped Efren off back at home and was now sitting in a chair at Jones Coffee Shop in Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, trying to chill out while reading a book on General Ulysses S. Grant, when his phone rang. Catching annoyed glances from the hard-core readers all around him for not having his phone on silent, he grabbed it from the table. Even though the caller ID on the screen said “Unknown” he answered it in a hushed tone.

  “Hello?”

  “Detective Parker?”

  Parker didn’t recognize the voice. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “We’ve never met formally, though you did see me the other night at The Mayan.”

  Parker looked up. “The Mayan?”

  “Yeah. Up in the balcony, after I had the waitress with the nice ass pass along my message.”

  Parker stopped cold, the image of Güero Martinez’s face, up in the balcony in the club, right before it all went to hell, coming immediately into focus. “Mr. Martinez?”

  A chuckle. “You can call me Güero.”

  Parker gritted his teeth. “How did you get my number?”

  “Ah, well, you know . . . I know people who know people.”

  Parker stood and left the coffee shop, his book in hand as he made his way to a quiet corner on the sales floor. “I’d like to know who—”

  “Oh. I’m sure you’d like to know a lot. But not now. I just wanted to reach out, introduce myself and welcome you to the game.”

  “What? What game?”

  “The grandest game of all, Detective. The one by which the entire universe tilts, every minute of every day, in one direction or the other.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Mr. Martinez.”

  “Tsk. I told you—it’s Güero. And I’m making all the sense in the world. Or at least as much as your old partner is making these days.”

  Stunned speechless, Parker looked out over the book racks. It was midday, but the bookstore was still fairly busy.

  “My old partner?”

  Güero laughed softly. “C’mon now. We don’t have time to play the spiritual denial game. Your old partner, yes. You know, the dead one? Did you think he could involve you in this without my side knowing?”

  This is impossible, Parker thought. Struggling with what to say next, all he could come up with was, “Listen. I’m a police officer and—”

  “You’re flesh and blood. Like most anyone else.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, really. Just a reality check. Tell your buddy to go back to being dead and that you want nothing to do with this investigation. Because that’s the only way you’re getting out of this in one piece, you hear me?”

  “Wow. Oh. I hear you,” Parker said, the anger in his voice betraying his contempt.

  “I know, I know. You won’t listen. You’re a good guy, you’d never turn your back on doing the right thing, blah, blah, blah, and all the other lies you tell yourself.”

  “You’re not scaring me, you piece of shit, just so you know.”

  “Oh, you should be scared. You’re in way over your depth, Detective. But . . . until we speak again, there’s only one thing left to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Game on.”

  The phone clicked in Parker’s ear. As he sorted through ideas of what to do next, his phone rang again.

  Incredible! The sonofabitch is calling back for more.

  “Listen, you rat bastard . . . !” Parker yelled into his phone, causing the man at the cash register and a few customers in line to jump and turn around.

  “Whoa, whoa! Easy now.” It was Captain Holland.

  Parker closed his eyes in embarrassment and lowered his voice. “Oh. Damn. Sorry, Cap.”

  “What was that all about?”

  Something in Parker told him not to say anything about Güero, so he didn’t. Instead, he went with, “Damn telemarketers. They keep calling. You know how it is.”

  “Okay. Well. I need you at the station.”

  “No extended leave?”

  “Not unless you think you need it. You know the drill. Officer-involved shooting. An optional day or two off, then seventy-two hours desk duty, minimum. You’ve got another briefing and then a psych eval coming up.”

  A psych eval? Great. Parker sighed. “Then what?”

  “It all goes to the chief’s desk, and if he’s satisfied, then you’re back on the street.”

  “I should just go on leave then.”

  “Well, I need your help for a few hours today if you can spare it. After that? Hey, desk duty means you can still be in here, working the angles, turning up leads on the case. And Murillo and Klink could use your help.”

  Parker hadn’t known Holland all that long, but so far he appeared to be a straight shooter who used his words economically and showed his emotions even less. Now, though, he sounded concerned as he added, “The Feds are involved.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. Evidently your investigation with Campos into the murder of Hymie Villarosa kicked open a hornet’s nest all over the damn place.”

  “With the Korean gang?”

  “Yeah. That’s part of it. You guys dug around all that stuff, which led you to the Mexican gang on Fresno Street, which turned over the large rock that this Güero Martinez character has been hiding under all this time, I guess.”

  Again, that n
ame.

  “How so?”

  “Just get in here. Now, if you can. The suits are waiting to talk with you.”

  Parker had the weirdest thought. Screw this. I can get a job in private security or something. A psych eval? The Feds? I don’t need this.

  He wanted to just go home, until he remembered Güero’s cocky attitude.

  “I’ll be there in twenty,” Parker grumbled.

  Before leaving, he bought the book, because an old friend had told him it was bad karma to read more than ten pages of one for free in a bookstore and not buy it. Then he went to his car and drove to the station house on Hollenbeck. A modern, beige building with irregular windows, it was adorned at the front corner with an open face of staggered sheets of white and opaque plexiglass bent at odd angles over silver posts and rails.

  Once inside the station he made his way up to the third floor, saying hi to the officers he knew and trying to ignore the concerned looks of a few. He wondered: had they made up a nickname yet? Maybe “O-for”, because what else do you call a guy who is 0 for 2 with partners, one dead and one wounded? Or maybe it wasn’t that abstract. Maybe they just went with “Bad Luck Parker”? Did it matter? He had nothing to do with it anyway and—unless the hamster in his mind had really run off the wheel completely, which was entirely possible—the stats were incorrect because his first partner wasn’t dead after all.

  He was alive . . . just in a different sorta way.

  When Parker pushed through the double doors of the detective’s unit he saw Murillo, Klink and Captain Holland through the glass wall of the conference room. With them were two women, dressed in suits. He waited to catch Holland’s eye, who waved him into the room.

  “This is Detective Parker, one of the lead detectives on the Hymie Villarosa case,” Holland said. He motioned to his left. “Parker, this is Special Agent Olivia Clopton with the FBI.” Then to his right. “And this is CI Special Agent Anush Sharma with the IRS.”

  Parker shook their hands.

  Clopton was tall, with cropped blond hair, and blue eyes over sharp cheekbones. She was attractive but had an intense stare. “The man of the hour,” she said seriously.