The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Delva cackled with glee as she licked the blood from her fingers, one at a time, as though it were dribbles of ice cream.

  The room went nearly silent for a moment, with only the sound of Misha continuing to mix and grind away at her concoction. Delva spoke to Sonia. “Take him to the back room, spread the blood from his body around the sacrificial altar in two circles. Then cut his head off and place it at the foot of the altar, are we clear?”

  Sonia nodded, not with the look of a subordinate but as a resentful equal. She half-carried, half-dragged Ernesto through a black curtain at the back of the room.

  Through it all, as if totally oblivious to her surroundings, Anastasia kept murmuring her chants in what sounded like foreign languages. The air in the room grew heavier, as did the darkness. Eenie began to look like what he really was: a young little pervert in way over his head, worried now that he might never see old age. Miney stood completely still, his hands folded behind his back, as if determined to await orders while avoiding being the next one killed.

  When she was done, much to Maggie’s dismay, Misha gathered ashes from all around the alter and sprinkled them into the cup. Giving it one final mix, she turned to Delva. “It’s ready. Make her drink it quickly.”

  They’re crazy. It is some damned cult. Those ashes . . . whatever else is in that thing . . . it’s going to force Luisa’s body to abort the baby. Or worse, it might kill them both.

  “No!” Maggie screamed, trying to break away from Meenie again. It was no use; he was almost twice her size and picked her up like a rag doll. Evidently not wishing to attract any negative attention his way after what had happened to Ernesto, he slammed Maggie violently sideways against the nearby wall before bringing her square against his chest again.

  Seeing stars, Maggie felt instantly woozy. Okay. For that, you son of a bitch, you are the one who gets to die first.

  Then the blackness of unconsciousness overtook her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once free from the island, Father Soltera found the swim back to the shore of the mainland to be much more difficult. The water seemed thicker, as if it didn’t want to relinquish its hold on him or allow him to leave. He was also missing the extra shot of adrenaline he’d had earlier upon seeing Gabriella again. The elation. The hope. Sadly, they were gone now, too. Still, he pumped his legs and swung his arms against his fatigue, weighed down by his sorrow as much by his clothes.

  Jesus was a man of sorrows, he reminded himself. This is my path. It’s what I must do. And with God’s grace, I will do it.

  Michiko had teleported across the water and was waiting for him near the tree line, crouched in front of her sword, which she had stabbed into the soil in front of her. He couldn’t tell if she was praying, but her head was bowed. It occurred to him that she could’ve helped him cross the water if she’d wanted to, but she hadn’t. As if he had to do this for himself, for some reason.

  Her voice spoke softly in his head. Yes and no, tomodachi. I can help. But never more than you help yourself. The majority of the effort must always be yours.

  “I’m exhausted,” he said with deep frustration, sputtering water as he struggled on.

  Try, tomodachi. Because I sense that I must conserve my energy.

  Father Soltera grunted, feeling the lower half of his body sinking more and more. No one was supposed to swim weighed down like this, much less a frail, sickly old man. But despite this fact, he was embarrassed. The swim, at most, was a hundred and fifty feet. Still, he was gasping for air, his heart pounding against his lungs, for what seemed like forever, before his right hand finally scraped against the pebbles of the shoreline and he clawed the rest of the way to land. Drenched, he fell face-first into a patch of grass and struggled to hold it together.

  Breathe, tomodachi.

  “My heart. The swim.”

  Your heart suffers from more than just the swim.

  He began to cry, against his will, the pain in his soul too much to bear now, knowing that Gabriella was still right behind him, standing on that shore, watching him, perhaps wanting him to come back, like he wanted to go back. Perhaps they could both just deny it all. Just stay and be two people on an island in a Neverland that would lead to nevermore. How many people in life had made the exact same choice? Anything but loneliness. Anything but despair. He didn’t dare lift his head and look back, because if . . .

  Shhhhhh, Michiko whispered as she knelt next to him. Reaching out one hand, she touched him gently on the back of his neck. Instantly, warmth began to spread throughout Father Soltera’s body, from a deep place at the center of his body in a blossoming flame of energy that made its way to every pore on the surface of his skin. It is the “if”s that kill, tomodachi. The “if what”s and the “if then”s are all demons of a most vicious kind.

  After a few moments, he felt the warmth move beyond his skin. It was as if his clothes were being turned into an electric blanket. Steam rose off him as the water from the lake began evaporating. Even his socks, which had been drenched only moments earlier, were now completely dry.

  He wiped at his eyes. “Is that what you were saving your energy for?”

  She laughed and spoke aloud this time. “That? That was nothing, tomodachi.”

  He got to his knees and slowly stood. His shoes were behind him, where he’d kicked them off earlier, but so was the tunnel . . .

  “Walk into the forest. I will get them for you,” Michiko said mercifully.

  Father Soltera did as he was told. Making his way into the forest, he felt cool soil and soft pine needles crunch beneath his feet. Deeper in, the branches overhead began to thicken, blocking out the light of the dull sky and casting him in shade as he made his way to a large boulder and sat down. Like a child, he’d gone far enough into the forest to have complied with Michiko’s request, but not so far a cry for help wouldn’t be heard.

  He heard a twig break at the edge of the forest and looked up with relief, hoping to see her. Except . . . Michiko should’ve been coming from the direction he was facing. The sound had come from . . . behind him.

  He turned his head and instantly caught sight of her. Stunningly, horribly, it was La Patrona. Back again. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been standing at the foot of his bed back in his apartment. Torturing him with his own thoughts.

  She smiled wickedly. “Hello, Popi.” The smile turned into a sneer. “Word around town is that you killed my sister.”

  Instantly, Father Soltera was reminded of The Gossamer Lady, lying there next to Ikuro, her severed head still trying to speak, her lips moving in silent words.

  “They weren’t silent, Popi. She was sending me a message, telling me who you were and what you and your little sword-wielding whore had done to her.”

  “No,” he replied, his voice a coarse whisper as he half slid, half fell off the boulder. For a moment he thought La Patrona was alone, absent her brood, but then he saw them behind her, all the little girls with bruises and cuts that had surrounded his bedside, back in his church apartment, in what now seemed like ages ago.

  They were each peeking eerily out from behind separate trees, their giggles echoing back and forth through the air. Quickly, almost impossibly so, they moved from tree to tree, in blurs of movement, back and forth, here to there, their feet scurrying through the fallen leaves.

  “Yessss,” La Patrona hissed, her black hair falling along her jawline and down across her shoulders. “They’re coming for you, Father. And pretty soon? They’re going to be playing catch with your beating heart, once they’re done carving it out of your duplicitous, lustful chest.”

  “No! Stay away from me!” he commanded as he rose to his feet.

  “Tabitha?” La Patrona shouted.

  All the girls stopped moving save one. She came forwards. She was wearing dirty pink sweats with a white top that said “Super Star” in faded glitter letters across the front. Her brown hair was ratty and tangled, her face a pasty white that only made the horrid deadness of
her black eyes all the starker. “Yes, Mother?”

  La Patrona glared at him with so much hate that it was almost a living thing, snaking its way through the air. “Kill him!”

  Tabitha laughed gleefully. “Yes, Mother.”

  Then, incredibly, she crawled up the tree next to her with blazing speed, like a four-legged spider, her fingernails digging into the bark with rapid, scratching sounds as she gripped with the sides of her feet. She launched herself onto the thick branch of a nearby tree and began moving from tree to tree, growing closer to Father Soltera each time. He backpedaled away. “Michiko!”

  La Patrona laughed and leaned back. She was wearing a white tank top this time, with worn blue jeans and black motorcycle boots. Digging her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans, she shook her head at him. “Really? You’re going to call on that whore to save you, after she brought you here to visit the other whore on that island? Ah, men. So. Damned. Pitiful. You’re as boring and predictable as the rest of your kind. We’re either supposed to be your mommy or your lover, your rescuer or your pacifier. All the needs in your weak little minds.”

  “Shut up!” Father Soltera screamed. “I don’t care what you say about me, but don’t you call either of them that!”

  “There ya go!” La Patrona spat. “A little manly-manliness, right before the end. I like it. But here’s what you fellas never seem to understand: we don’t want to have to deal with all your damn needs and wants aaaall the damned time, massaging your egos and satiating your horniness. It’s exhausting. And, well, I can’t speak for all my kind, but all I ever really wanted?” She paused and looked around at her little brood before she locked eyes with him. “Was children.”

  With that, all the other girls leaped into the trees began to follow Tabitha, the entire pack of them on the attack now.

  He looked around for an escape but saw none.

  Meanwhile, Tabitha dropped to the ground briefly and picked up a large stick. Opening her mouth sickeningly wide, her lower jaw cracked and dropped on each side as her lips curled back, revealing rows of small razor-sharp teeth, which she then shaved across the stick, back and forth, until she’d fashioned a crude stake. Then she jumped back up into the trees and continued her advance.

  But Father Soltera noticed that the closer the children got, the more they slowed down. Something was inhibiting their speed.

  It became evident what it was when blue lines began to cut across the trunks of random trees. Moving from right to left across the woods, Michiko’s sword was slicing through the trunks as if they were cheesecloth. In time, a few of the trees that some of the brood had leaped on were toppled, crashing sideways and sending the girls screaming off to one side or the other.

  Eventually, Michiko came to a stop directly in front of Father Soltera, her left leg straight out, her right leg bent at the knee, both feet firmly planted, with her katana lifted at a downward angle behind her head, ready to strike.

  La Patrona seemed thoroughly unimpressed. “Ah. I have waited a long time to meet you, Woman of the East,” she said with a smirk.

  “Demon,” Michiko answered with a tight voice. “There are some meetings you should never wish for.”

  Hector chewed on his lower lip and stared at The Gray Man. “What do you mean, I’m your last millionth?”

  Exactly that. My time training others is coming to an end. And that is why we must get this right, you see. Because you are in great danger. Listen. For now, I want you to practice pooling the blue.

  “How?”

  Call on it from inside yourself. Concentrate. You’ll feel it. When called, it calls back. Work on channeling it to your hands but also your mind.

  “But. I mean . . . how?”

  The Gray Man’s image went scattershot again. The snowy façade now pixilated violently, causing his voice to cut in and out.

  I’m running . . . time . . . You must try . . . practice .. .first . . . then shoot . . . angles . . . there are . . .

  Hector shook his head and put out his hands. “I don’t understand.”

  His cell vibrated violently, as if it were stuck between two magnets. Slowly, The Gray Man’s image hardened. But his face twisted with the effort. The evil creatures of this place have noticed me more than ever. They know I’m around now and are trying to fix my position.

  “What were you saying?” Hector replied, sensing the urgency.

  Practice calling, then pooling the blue. Then let it go. In time, try to shoot it from your hands. But keep the angles short and don’t let the power from either hand cross to the other.

  “Okay. But how long does it take to learn to use it?”

  Everyone is different. Most take some time. Kyle Fasano learned quickly.

  “Who? Man, I don’t know nothin’ bout no Kyle Fasano,” Hector said with frustration.

  No. You don’t. And you wouldn’t. Two different people, in two entirely different parts of the city once.

  “Once? Is he dead?”

  The Gray Man chuckled. No. He moved away. I hear he’s getting along though. He made his choice and now he’s working his way through it, one step at a time, and becoming a better person for it.

  “Choice?”

  Never mind. It’s not yet time. What’s important is that I need you to learn it quickly, like he did. Because you’re not the only one I’m training right now. There’s another, who will take my place, who is about to go up against an evil as great as the one you are facing.

  Hector was stunned. “What?”

  Yes. The enemy is putting all his effort into this. An incredible amount, really.

  “Why?”

  The Gray Man seemed contemplative. Because of me. Because he wants to stop me from moving on . . . from going to where I’ve always wanted to go.

  Hector shook his head in dismay. “Where?”

  The Gray Man smiled. Ah. Hector. So tough. So young. But you’re smart. You’ve managed to ask the what and the why and the where. So there’s only one question left, isn’t there?

  Hector thought for a moment, then looked at him with surprise. “Who?”

  The Gray Man smiled. Exactly. She was the only “who” that ever mattered to me, and I’ve waited so long to get back to her. To love her again. He paused, looking desperate from just a split second, before he added, For the victories I’ve helped secure against the enemy? He would like nothing more than to stop me from getting to her. Just like he would like nothing more than to see you fail in your efforts to save Curtis, or in my friend’s efforts to take my place. We cannot let that happen, son. To any of us. Do you understand?

  “Yeah. I got you. I get it now,” Hector said, clenching his fists.

  Good. Now. There’s a detective you met a little time ago.

  “A detective?”

  Yes. In the driveway of your shop on Winston Street. He was investigating Hymie’s murder.

  Hector thought about it. “Yeah. I remember. There were two of them. A Mexican and some white boy.”

  The Gray Man tightened his lips. His name is Detective Parker. He’s involved in something separate from you but could use your help.

  “My help?”

  Yes. I can reach out to him but it’s better if you do.

  “Why’s that?”

  Because you will need him, in the long run.

  “Oooookay,” Hector said, shaking his head in dismay. “What am I supposed to reach out to him about?”

  You know of Güero Martinez?

  Hector raised his eyebrows. “Who doesn’t? We all do. On the street he’s kinda a sick legend. Crazy mother—” He stopped himself. “Sorry.”

  At least you’re trying now, The Gray Man replied. Yes. Güero is sick, indeed. And aligned with a level of evil that has grown disproportionally to what anyone can handle. Anyway. Detective Parker is going after him.

  “Ha! Good luck with that. Dude’s a whole ’nother level of crazy. This detective don’t need my help. He needs to back off and go get a drink somewhere.”

&nbs
p; Neither of which are options. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t traffic in luck, Hector. Just for the record.

  “Yeah. Got it,” Hector said wearily. This whole thing was getting crazier and crazier.

  He used to work out of the LAPD Central Station.

  “Used to?”

  Suddenly, the heavy static returned, forcing most of The Gray Man’s lower torso to disappear. It’s a long story, The Gray Man said, sounding irritated as he looked up and around. But I’ve officially run out of time now. So . . . use one of your calls and leave a message for him with Detective Murillo. Tell him it has to do with Shilo. He’ll get the message to Parker and you’ll get a call back.

  “Shilo? What does that—”

  Just make the call and leave the message.

  “And what am I supposed to tell him when he calls back?”

  You’ll know it when the time comes.

  Hector was dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious right now!”

  In reply, The Gray Man vanished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Parker spent the rest of the drive into Pasadena catching Napoleon up on things with Efren. There wasn’t a lot that Nap didn’t already know, and it became quickly obvious that whatever free time he had outside of his time training with The Gray Man was spent checking in on his little nephew. He even knew a few things that Parker didn’t. Namely that Efren has kissed his first girl—Maria—after walking her home one day after school. “You should’ve seen them, Parker,” Nap said, a dreamy look coming over his face, “nervously holding hands the whole two blocks from the school to her house. They lit up, man.”

  “Lit up?” Parker asked with a chuckle.

  “Yeah. It’s beautiful, ya know? Love in its purest form. They were both a light pink glow the whole walk, then bright pink with a shock of red with the kiss. And, I mean, that kiss? It was barely a peck. But I thought for sure Efren was going to faint when he turned to walk back home.”