Panic threw him shoulder-first into the Mexican, catching the old man by surprise, and the momentum carried both of them toward the gaping hole in the plane. Trent tried to scream, but the air rushed out of his lungs even as his body rushed out of the plane. A painful scrape against the jagged metal wound in the hull slowed Trent’s ejection just enough for him to grope wildly for the Mexican. He caught the edge of the old man’s coat, pulling him fully off-balance.
At the last second, before both tumbled out into the void, the Mexican let go of his cowboy hat, freeing up his other hand. The gray hat whipped out into the cold blackness of night, but the wrinkled old hands shot forward, back into the plane’s tortured cabin and the old man grabbed the screeching beast by the insides of its mouth. It bit down hard and scrabbled with knife-like claws against his flesh, still fighting to get at Trent, fighting to scramble over the Mexican’s shoulder, like a massive, horrifying cat struggling to get free of its owner’s grasp. The old man took the pain with a snarl and then, with unimaginable strength, wrenched the creature from its perch in the aisle and all three of them–Trent, old man, and monster–exited the plane at thirty thousand feet.
They fell, their bodies twisting and turning in the buffeting winds, one clawing at the other in a vain attempt to climb upwards, toward some heavenly sanctuary that couldn’t be reached. But after a moment, a sudden and strange calm came over the old man. With the ground getting closer by the second, he smiled, leaned back, threw open his arms, and closed his eyes.
Trent watched from above as the old man descended, creating a weird sort of vertigo as a cornfield rushed up to meet the swan-posed figure. He saw the man shudder on impact and then the cornstalks blasted toward him and there came the sound of shattering, crunching bone and Trent slammed into the supine body with the force of a two-hundred pound bullet.
16
TRENT BLINKED AND GASPED FOR a breath of air. He felt like he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. His breathing finally regulated after a few seconds and the pain behind his eyes subsided and he recognized reality and pushed the damage-birthed nightmare back into the recesses of his mind. His head was pounding, his body ached, and he could barely hear. He looked around.
Water still spurted from some of the exposed pipes. Icicles hung from the ceiling above him, like silver daggers aimed at his eyes. He could hear Celia crying softly nearby.
He rolled over and managed to climb to his knees. Looking at the fire sent memories racing through his mind, memories he had suppressed for nearly two years, memories just now coming back to him. He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the headache and the remnants of the flashback.
“You look like shit,” said a nearby, gravelly voice.
Trent looked frantically around, remembering Salvatore, though the voice did not quite match. Salvatore was gone. Where he had lain, a thick puddle of blood was left, some of it seeping down into the glittering water. To the edge of the fire barrel glow, Trent could see a series of bloody handprints and smears continuing along the tunnel walls, back in the direction he and Celia had come.
Salvatore had survived. Not a lot of blood left, he thought. Not at the rate he’s bleeding out. Even with magic powers, Trent guessed the old man would not make it very far; and Trent had no interest in following. He just wanted to get Celia to Charlie’s shop, get his bike, and leave this godforsaken place and all of its madness once and for all.
He struggled wearily to his feet.
The voice called out again, hoarse and tired-sounding, “Loan me a smoke?”
“What?” Trent looked around, and finally saw the source. The old, drugged-out bum had woken up. He was staring up at Trent from behind the barrel, blue eyes questioning.
“Smoke?” said the bum again, pantomiming the act of smoking a cigarette.
“Oh.” Trent reached into his left jeans pocket, which sent a wave of pain up his arm. He finally managed to fumble a crumpled-up pack of Marlboros onto the tunnel floor. He bent down, slowly, and picked out the last remaining cigarette from the pack, and tossed it to the bum.
“Thanks.”
Trent nodded, took a deep breath, and turned to approach Celia. She had curled up into a fetal position and was rocking gently, back and forth, eyes wide and fixed squarely on the opposite wall of the tunnel. She looked catatonic.
“Celia? Kiddo? You okay?”
No answer.
“Come on,” he said. “You can’t go nuts on me now, kid. We gotta get out of here.”
“It was my fault,” she said, quietly.
“What?”
“I cast the wrong spell.” She turned away from him and stared at the fire dancing above the old, rusted barrel. “I made a mistake. The words, the voices, they came rushing into my head, and I picked the wrong ones.”
Trent thought about the cloud of smoke and they gray arms trying to drag Celia inside. He could scarcely imagine something like that could even exist, let alone that it had been conjured by a scared teenage girl. “I don’t think that was you, kiddo–”
“Don’t call me that.” She picked up a handful of ice and made a pitiful effort of throwing it at Trent.
“Fine!” he shot back and shook his head in frustration. He didn’t know how to handle the situation, and he was not about to try and drag her from the tunnel by force. He was even a little afraid to touch her, after what he had seen.
He waited for a moment, unsure what to do next, until suddenly Celia shot him a pained look and stood up. Then she turned her back to Trent and the bum and the fire barrel, and began marching away, into the darkness of the receding tunnel. “Let’s go,” she said. “I need time to think about the words in my head. I need to figure this out.” Her voice had a lowness, an unsettling quality that made Trent shiver involuntarily.
He surveyed the area one last time, looking for the gray Stetson that had flown off his head during the fight. He found it and brushed off a few shards of concrete and bits of trash, then sighed, jammed the hat on his head, and left, jogging painfully to catch up with Celia’s retreating form as she disappeared into the dark maze beneath The Strip.
If the previous journey through the muck had been painful, the next two hours for Trent seemed like Hell itself. The teenager never faltered, and he found himself barely able to keep up with her. He stumbled like a movie zombie through the garbage-laden tunnels.
Finally, after two hours of trudging through the freezing cold, he stopped beside a ladder inset into the wall. “Celia,” he said, barely able to find the energy to yell.
She turned and looked down the tunnel at him. He gestured to the ladder with a blood-encrusted hand. “Back here.”
He looked up at the metal door atop the ladder and wondered what he would find beyond. The temperature had grown impossibly cold, colder than he had ever felt in Las Vegas, and colder than even the worst winter days in Chicago. And from somewhere above, he could hear the wind now, more intense than before, blowing in powerful, screaming and whistling gusts.
Celia walked back over to stand next to him, but would not meet his gaze.
Trent pointed up the ladder. “We should be a block from Charlie’s shop here.” He put his hands on his knees and gasped for air. “I think.”
Without saying a word, the teenager reached out, grabbed a metal rung and started to climb.
Dusk had dropped on the city of Las Vegas like a veil. Where there had been torrential downpours the night before, there was heavy snow now, and Trent knew now that Salvatore had something to do with it. He had hoped that if the old man died, the storm would let up, but it did not look that way yet.
He and Celia stood on the side of the road, watching the panicked drivers as they smashed into one another. Others loped around in the streets, crying and terrified to be caught out in the storm, some stumbling through the snow as if caught in a sort of somnambulatory trance, unable to comprehend, lost in the blinding white. Evening traffic–in truth, Las Vegas itself–had all but shut down.
They trudged through the ankle- and sometimes knee-deep snow along the sidewalk, passing by run-down liquor stores and ‘adult novelty’ shops. They walked past a bum, lying fetal against the side of an abandoned storefront. Trent suspected he was dead. Up ahead, he could make out the faint, snow-obscured outline of City Pawn.
They shuffled through the snow and reached the front door. City Pawn was always open–24 hours a day, every day, including holidays. Trent had often wondered when Charlie slept; he seemed to be the only employee. He knocked on the iron-barred door.
After a moment’s silence, the door cracked open slightly. “Da?”
“It’s Trent, Charlie. We need some help.”
“Who?”
“Trent,” he said and then added, “Hawkins. I was in here this morning.”
There was a pause and then the door swung open.
“Mister Trent. Of course. I’ve been expectink your return.” But Charlie’s wide smile turned to a frown as he looked at the two of them. “You are lookink terrible, both of you. Come in, come in.” He gestured for them to enter, brushing back a few wisps of white hairs that clung to his liver-spotted scalp as they followed him inside.
Charlie shut the door behind them and they basked in the warmth of the spacious store. After the long trek through the underground, Trent’s eyes hurt to look at the array of fluorescent lights, but the sudden feeling of relief, of temporary sanctuary, was overwhelming. He fell into a heap in a nearby metal folding chair. Celia eyed them both warily and wandered over to the far end of the shop where the women’s clothes were on display.
“Trent, what is happenink to you?” Charlie placed a strangely comforting hand on Trent’s cheek. “You are very hurt.”
Trent looked up at him, working hard to fight back tears. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Not even sure you’d believe me.”
Charlie smiled. “I believink more than you know. Monsters, yes? Dark thinks in dark places?”
Trent blinked, astounded at the sudden turn in the conversation. “Uhh–” he stammered. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The little man nodded and turned away. He moved across the shop to a small office space in the corner and brought back a ceramic mug of coffee for Trent. “Drink,” he said. “It gettink cold out there.”
“Susan’s dead, Charlie. I lost her.” He looked up, unashamed of the tears that he felt pulling at the corners of his eyes.
Charlie clucked quietly and shushed him. “No time for that now, please. You will see her again.”
“What? How?” Trent threw the coffee cup at the floor. It shattered, spilling ceramic bits and brown fluid across the linoleum. Celia looked up in alarm from over by the jackets display.
“How will I fucking see her again? She’s dead, Charlie!” He moved to stand, but Charlie pushed him back down into the chair.
“Calm, Mister Trent.” He smiled warmly. “You just trust old Charlie on this one. She is strong woman. She is beink in dark place now, but you will see her again.”
Trent shook his head, reeling with the sudden emotional pain that had enveloped him after the physical pain began to subside. “What do you know of ‘dark places?’ Who are you?”
Charlie pulled over a second metal chair and sat. “Who do you think I am?”
“Who is Salvatore? What the fuck is going on? Tell me, dammit!”
Charlie smiled sadly. “We are related, Zamagiel and I. And there are others, too. Others you have known. We all are choosink our paths through this world. I have chosen one, Zamagiel has chosen another.” He leaned forward, placed a hand on Trent’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “What path is yours, Mister Trent?”
“Goddammit, who is Zamagiel?”
Charlie shook his head. “Zamagiel has taken poor Salvatore’s life from him. Has made him do horrible thinks. Has sent him down a dangerous path.” Charlie stared deep into Trent’s eyes. Again, he asked, “What path is yours?”
Trent pulled back, uncomfortable with Charlie’s intense stare. He noticed that the old Russian had very slightly mismatched eyes, like the two blond men he had seen in the shop earlier, only less obvious. He wondered why he had never noticed Charlie’s strange eyes before. He thought about the old man’s question.
“My path?” He looked over at Celia, who had put on one of the black leather women’s jackets from the clothing rack. The green book that Trent had been interested in before now jutted from her jacket pocket. The sight of it made his spine tingle, though he had no idea why. A strange sort of envy rose up in him, but he fought it down and looked back at Charlie. He shook his head, resigned to the only plan he had come up with. “I just have to get her out of here, out of Las Vegas. If you can give me my bike back, my path leads out–anywhere but this fucking place.”
Charlie looked saddened by his answer. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand across the top of his bald head. “That is not a path, just an action. In Russia, they have sayink, ‘You are fallink down if you sit between two chairs.’ I think you should be findink your chairs first, Mister Trent, before you try to sit.”
Trent frowned, frustrated by Charlie’s cryptic ramblings. He just wanted to get out, to find some way to keep Celia safe, to grieve in peace, without shadow creatures and psychotic old men harassing him at every turn. “Look, can you just help us, Charlie? It’s not safe here for her, or me. We have to get out.”
Charlie scooted the chair back and stood up. He sighed. “I will help you. You can have your bike, though it will be hard to ride in this weather.”
Trent thought about the bike. He hated the idea of driving through what seemed like a blizzard in the open, but it seemed the only option.
“It’ll have to do.” He glanced at Celia, who was looking at herself in a mirror. She had put on semi-torn blue jeans and a white, long-sleeve shirt beneath the leather jacket. “Can she keep the clothes? And can I get a gun, just in case?”
Charlie nodded. “What kind of gun are you needink?”
“Handgun.” He knew that Charlie collected firearms, and had more than a few assault weapons in the locked back closet. “But something big, powerful.”
Charlie opened the glass case behind the counter and withdrew an Israeli-made Desert Eagle, black with a brushed nickel grip. “Dot fifty,” he said. “Very loud, very strong.” He pulled out a couple of cartridges in cardboard boxes and stacked them on the counter next to the gun. “I am givink you all this because we are friends, Mister Trent. No other reason.” He retrieved the motorcycle key from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter next to the ammo.
“Sure.”
“Will you be promisink me one thing?”
“What?”
“Remember there are others in this place who are hurtink. Maybe you can be helpink them, too, if you find right chairs to sit in.”
Trent shrugged. “Sure, I’ll keep it in mind.” He had no clue what Charlie meant. His purpose was singular: get the Hell out of Las Vegas. “Come on,” he said to Celia. “Let’s get going.”
He gathered up the supplies, grabbed a long black coat off a rack for himself, and walked to the front door of the shop. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said, as he pushed open the door.
They stepped out into the cold. The storm had grown in strength, now more of a precursor to a blizzard than merely a heavy snow. The streets, the sidewalks, the buildings, everything covered with a thick blanket of white that shone dully beneath the orange sodium streetlamps.
“Fuck,” Trent exclaimed.
After a minute, Charlie came around the corner of the building, pushing a jet-black Ducati motorcycle, souped-up and flawless. “Here it is,” he said. “Please be takink good care of her.”
Trent wasn’t sure if he meant Celia or the bike.
A sound came from his pocket, the voice of Johnny Cash singing through a
tinny cellphone speaker. He fished the phone out and looked at the small screen. Unlisted number. He frowned, pushed ‘answer’ and placed the phone to his ear. Celia stood next to him, looking at him with a confused expression on her face. Trent noticed that her hand was gently caressing the green book jutting from her pocket.
“Hello?”
“Nice, Trent.” The caller’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “You answered your cellphone with the cops on your ass.”
“Wait,” he ventured, “is this–?”
The caller cut him off. “Shut up. Don’t say my name, idiot. We need to talk. Come to my place. You know where, right?”
“Yeah, but–” Trent realized his voice was shaking. “We’re– I’m leaving– I mean, I can’t come there.”
“You’re not going anywhere. They’ve closed the Interstates and highways. You’re stuck here like the rest of us. Don’t you think it’s funny the bad weather is only over Vegas?”
“Uhh–”
“I have answers for you. Get over here.” And then the caller hung up.
As his sense of surprise wore off, it occurred to him that the caller had been right: he was stupid to still have the cellphone. He dropped it to the ground and then stepped down hard, crunching it to pieces beneath his boot. He stood, staring into the night, watching the falling snow.
“Who was that?” asked Celia, her voice muffled by the wind.
Trent took a long moment to mull over the never-forgotten name in his head. “Jack Mars,” he answered, finally. “He owns a casino. Last time I saw him, he tried to kill me.”
17
THE LAST PLACE TRENT WANTED to go was back to The Strip. Camera-heavy, well lit, a crowd-packed nightmare, exactly the worst place for an alleged kidnapper and his kid to be caught.
The snow was coming down fast now and the arctic cold had settled in with a vengeance. The wind came in heavy gusts, blowing over loose signs and knocking down the few tourists left trying to traverse the sidewalks. Trent marveled as he watched some of the people on the streets–the serial gamblers–locals who plodded on just the same, half of them probably trashed on drugs or booze, none of them wearing proper attire or even so much as caring about the impossible weather. They tromped along through the piles of snow and turned into their chosen casinos, houses of vice and ringing, cacophonous solace that never, ever closed down.
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