Briarpatch by Tim Pratt

by Tim Pratt

  Orville wondered if he would die soon, if Bridget had a real plan or if she was just being careless in a way only the already-dead could be. But he complied, stopping his backward retreat as the muggers drew up alongside the stairway they couldn’t see. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a few bills, and held them out.

  “Oh, so you were lying,” the tall man said, disapprovingly. He reached for the cash. “We might have to tax you a little for that. Dishonesty tax.” Bridget stood behind him. The man touched the money, and Orville reached out and took his wrist, gently encircling it with his fingers. “You want to try some judo shit?” the man said, amused, and then caught sight of the stairs, which he could see now, having touched Orville’s hand. “The fuck?” he said, turning to look down the stairs, and trying to pull his hand away. Orville gritted his teeth and held on, and then Bridget hurled herself against the mugger like a football player slamming into a blocking sled. Her shove didn’t have the force it would have if she’d been in her original body, but it was enough to knock him off balance. The man gasped and stumbled down a couple of steps, tearing his arm free from Orville—but now he was in the passageway, in another world or between them. He tottered on the edge of a step, pinwheeled his arms, and fell, bouncing down the narrow stairs to land on the sandy earth at the bottom. Bridget spat after him. “One down,” she said.

  Was the man dead? Even if he was alive, without Orville touching him, would he be able to see the way back to this world, or would he be trapped . . . wherever he was now? Orville couldn’t decide whether to be exulted or horrified.

  The other mugger stared at the wall, clearly unable to see the gap and the stairs. “Marlin?” he said. “Where the fuck did you go?” He looked at Orville, wide-eyed. “Where the fuck did he go?”

  Surprised at himself, Orville took a step forward. In a low voice, he said “Do you want me to make you disappear too?”

  The man’s eyes went even wider, and he backed up, then turned and ran down the block out of view.

  “Nicely done, Mr. Troll,” Bridget said. “God, I got fucked with so much when I was alive, being a woman in this city, you have no idea what it’s like sometimes. Glad we got some of our own back.”

  “What will happen to . . . the other one?”

  Bridget shrugged. “If he’s still alive you mean? Nothing good. I’ve been down those stairs, and he’s not in such a nice part of the briarpatch. If he can’t see any of the passageways out—and there’s no reason to think he can—I don’t like his chances. There are bears down there. Fuck him. He made his choice, got into that line of work. Don’t pity him. Come on. Let’s go see Darrin.”

  Orville closed his eyes. “I can’t . . . I just killed a man.”

  “No. You held his hand for a minute, that’s all. If anyone killed him, it was me, and I don’t mind calling it self-defence.” She paused. “Not that he could have hurt me, but he could have hurt you. So call it ‘other-defence.’ Okay?”

  Still shaken, trembling with now-useless adrenaline, Orville followed her around the thug’s abandoned car, and across the street. A man came down the steps from the building and paused at the bottom, taking a cell phone from his pocket.

  “Wait,” Bridget said. “That’s Nicholas, Darrin’s friend. Didn’t expect to see him here. I’m going closer.” She slipped up the sidewalk toward him, and Orville tried to look nonchalant, standing on a street that wasn’t his own. He was glad of the pause, though. If he’d had to ring Darrin’s doorbell so soon after encountering those muggers, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get a word out, too nervous to speak.

  The man, Nicholas, wasn’t talking loudly, but the wind was such that Orville could hear most of the words. “Yeah, I’m still here,” he said. “I told him I needed to have a smoke. Relax, he doesn’t know I’m calling you. This has been the longest day in the universe. I wish he’d take some sleeping pills or something, I mean, his ex-girlfriend died this morning, you’d think he’d be in the mood for sleep, but he’s all wound up, I keep pouring drinks in him and hoping he’ll pass out. Yeah. What’s the plan? Tomorrow . . . shit. No, of course I’m still up for it, as long as you fulfill your end. In the afternoon, though, okay? We’re getting pretty smashed here and he’s probably going to be hungover. Yeah, of course, he’s fucking grieving, man. How’re we going to get him out of the house? Oh, hell, her? Whatever. All right. I’ll call tomorrow.” He flipped the phone closed, took a deep breath, and went back up the stairs.

  Bridget came back to Orville, frowning.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I put my ear close to the phone,” she said, slowly. “And . . . the voice on the other end was Ismael. I’m sure of it. I don’t know what they were talking about, exactly, but I know who. They were talking about Darrin. I don’t understand this. What does Ismael care about Darrin? And why would Nicholas be talking to him, how do they even know each other?”

  “Do you still want to see Darrin?”

  “I . . . not with Nicholas there. Darrin is grieving, he said. He must know I died. Maybe he’s still listed as my emergency contact or something, I don’t even remember.” Her hand strayed to the zipper on the front of her red coat and slid it halfway down, then up again, then back down, absentmindedly. “If he’s drunk . . . no, this was a bad idea, I don’t know enough, something else is going on, Ismael is doing something I don’t understand. But I’ll find out.” She gritted her teeth.

  Orville yawned. “Do you want to go to Ismael’s house tonight?”

  She considered it, then shook her head. “No. He’s too on at night, he likes to stay up and plan, he’s at his best after nightfall. I want to go to his house in the morning and roll him out of bed, put the sun on his face like he’s a fucking vampire.” She looked troubled, that line appearing on her forehead. “But what does he want with Darrin? Does it have something to do with me? I don’t get it.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Orville said, and they walked back up the street the way they came.

  7

  Arturo leaned against the side of the Wendigo, reading a paperback he’d found in the depths of the back seat, something by Tim O’Brien. A bunch of pages in the middle were missing, but he hadn’t gotten to that point yet, so he didn’t really mind.

  A stocky, muscular man came running down the sidewalk like the devil was after him, but Arturo didn’t see anybody on his heels. The man stopped short, reached into his pants, and pulled out a gun, a little short-barrelled revolver. Gasping for air, he said “Give me the fucking keys, man!”

  “You don’t want to do this.” Arturo held his place in the book with his finger.

  “Fuck you!” the man shouted. “Why all you motherfuckers gotta be talking back tonight, shit!”

  Arturo held up his hands. This man wasn’t going to be dissuaded. “Okay. No backtalk. The keys are in the car.” He backed away.

  The man wrenched open the driver’s side and slid onto the seat. The door closed after him, without the man even touching it.

  Arturo turned his back on the Wendigo and looked at the apartment building across the street. It had fake crenellations along the roof, like the turrets on a castle. Arturo approved of little whimsical touches like that. He didn’t go back to his book yet.

  The Wendigo rocked on its shocks, squeaking a little as it moved. There were no screams, fortunately, and the sound of chewing was brief and seemed far away. After a while Arturo heard a click, and the driver’s side door opened.

  Arturo turned and glanced inside. The would-be carjacker was gone, of course, though about sixty dollars in mixed bills lay on the seat, along with a library card and one shoe. Arturo pocketed the money and tossed the shoe and the library card into the back seat, where they would disappear by morning. He sighed. He knew the Wendigo was just protecting itself, and this had only happened a couple of times in the past, but it still bothere
d him. He wondered if the carjacker was dead, or if the belly of the Wendigo was somehow a world unto itself. Arturo hoped he would never have to know.

  He shut the car door and leaned against it again, returning to his book, almost too distracted to read, wondering why the Wendigo had parked itself here and refused to move beyond the neighbourhood. It had something to do with Darrin, probably, but Arturo didn’t know what. Ah, well. In time, things would be revealed, or they wouldn’t. The Wendigo moved in mysterious ways.

  Ismael Entertains Visitors

  1

  The morning after Bridget jumped, Darrin sat up in bed and groaned, his head thudding. He dragged himself through the living room, surprised that Nicholas had cleared away the beer bottles and glasses. Nicholas generally didn’t bother cleaning up, and the thoughtfulness touched Darrin. The guy really did care—he just didn’t know how to show it all the time. Darrin poured a glass of ice water and grimaced as the liquid hit his mouth. He was so dry the water refused to soak into his tissues, but he forced himself to drink it all, swallow some painkillers, and pour another glass. He took a hot shower and felt marginally more human by the time he emerged. Maybe last night hadn’t been a good idea. Pouring alcohol into a depressed person was like pouring gasoline on a fire. But seeing Nicholas and looking through the old photo albums had been nice, almost a flashback to college. Nostalgia had done its trick, making the past seem like a beautiful country still possible to visit sometimes.

  Once the coffee was brewing, Darrin went downstairs to check his mail, though it was usually nothing but bills these days. There was a white envelope on the floor inside his door, apparently shoved through the crack underneath, and when he picked it up, he saw it bore neither an address nor postage. He ripped it open and withdrew a single sheet of paper, printed text reading:

  If you want to find Ismael Plenty he lives at 357 Beane Street. Bridget used to live there to. Hes a bastard and deserves whatever he gets so good luck.

  Was it real? Who could have left it? Who knew he was looking for Ismael, apart from Nicholas and Echo? It might be Arturo—he said the Wendigo produced weird notes sometimes.

  Darrin looked up 357 Beane Street online, and was somehow unsurprised to find it was only a few miles away, near Emeryville. He’d assumed Ismael lived in San Francisco, and that’s where he’d planned to start searching for him, but it seemed Bridget’s—what, lover, confidante, cult leader, killer?—preferred the cheaper rents and more convenient parking of the East Bay over the more obvious charms of San Francisco. Assuming the note was real.

  After getting dressed, Darrin wrote a brief note for Echo and put it on the kitchen counter, where she was sure to see it—Echo never came over without eating his food or drinking his tea or wine, after all. Her appetites were prodigious. She usually stopped by in the afternoons, and he let her know he was going out for a while, and wasn’t sure when he’d be back. He considered signing it “love” but settled on “XOXO” instead.

  Darrin went down the steps. It was just after noon, but autumn in Oakland wasn’t really too warm or too cold, and the rain probably wouldn’t come for another few weeks. The sky was clear, except for a few thin high clouds. Darrin walked along the sidewalk, past the redwood in the centre of the traffic circle, toward the Wendigo. There was no sign of Arturo, which was too bad, because Darrin had planned to ask him for a lift—he’d offered, after all. Darrin didn’t know where to find him, or even where to start looking. He glanced inside the car and saw the keys dangling from the ignition, and thought for a moment about just borrowing the car and driving to Beane Street. He remembered the noise the Wendigo’s horn had made, though, and Arturo’s comment about not wanting to use the high-beams. If Darrin got into this car, there was no telling where it would take him.

  To hell with it. He’d start walking, and if he saw a bus going the right way, he’d catch it. He wondered if he should get a weapon, remembering the way Ismael had whipped out that baton and knocked Nicholas down outside the strip club. But Darrin wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon if he got one. Besides, he was so pissed, if Ismael came at him with a club, Darrin would take it away and beat him with it. Assuming the note was even on the level. Worst case scenario, he wasted an afternoon walking. Big deal. He would’ve just wasted it on something else, anyway.

  As Darrin walked up to Macarthur Boulevard, he felt energy returning to him, an interest in and commitment to life that had been absent these past months. He had a mission, even if he wasn’t sure, exactly, what he’d do when he confronted Ismael. Something serious, he suspected. He couldn’t be sure what the man had done to Bridget, but he was involved, somehow, in her death, and probably in her departure from Darrin’s life. Darrin intended to find out . . . and, if necessary, to make him pay.

  Love was a better reason for living than revenge, but revenge would do in a pinch.

  And anything was better than that hollow numb ache of loss.

  2

  Ismael sat in a lawn chair in his sad little back yard, a cup of coffee steaming its warmth away into the cool air on the metal table beside him. He wistfully read Final Exit, the practical guide to suicide, though he knew there was nothing inside he hadn’t attempted before. If only. He tried not to let himself be hopeful about tonight. The trauma Darrin would undergo this afternoon should push him utterly out of his old life, and such psychological upheaval, combined with Ismael’s influence, might be enough to make him rush headlong into undiscovered countries. If Darrin really was a child of the briarpatch—born there, or if not exactly born, then coming to life by some spontaneous generation or abiogenesis, the way people once believed mice were born from dirty hay or crocodiles from rotting logs—he could have access to paths Ismael could not reach on his own, just as Harczos had, and perhaps he could lead Ismael to the northwest passage, that overland route to the better world that Harczos claimed to have found—that he had taunted Ismael with.

  “Oh Izzy,” Echo yelled, stomping through his house. “Are you excited? Are you revved up? Are you game?” She came through the door, grinning. “You’re going to owe me major for this. Darrin’s kind of sweet, I don’t even mind hooking up with him, but Nicholas is like a frat boy with less charm. He’s gonna cost you extra.”

  Ismael had grown weary of Echo’s attempts at humiliation long ago, but she was useful to him, capable of almost any act so long as she was sufficiently entertained. But unless things went badly tonight, he would disappear into the briarpatch with Darrin, in search of the northwest passage, and if he ever emerged again, he would do so somewhere far away, out of Echo’s effective range. So why not promise her anything?

  “What did you have in mind?” he asked her. “Do you want to shoot me with a flamethrower? Put me in an iron maiden? Perhaps something with piranha?”

  “Nah.” Echo sat on the back steps, reaching for his coffee, sniffing, and putting it back with disdain. “There’s not any whiskey in that. Or even Kahlua.”

  “It’s a little early for me.” Ismael glanced skyward. It was still an hour before noon. In the old days, he’d drank beer at all hours, because beer was safer than the frequently-tainted water. But Ismael had changed somewhat with the times.

  “Whatever,” Echo said. “No, I’m going to have to put some thought into this one, make you do something seriously fucked up. I’ll let you know later. If it’s especially terrible with Nicholas, I’ll charge extra too.”

  “I wait with bated breath. Did you arrange to get Darrin out of the house for a while?”

  “Oh, sure.” She began picking through the cigarette butts around the bottom of the steps—all her own cigarettes, since Ismael couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to smoke anymore—until she found one that wasn’t stomped on and that was only half-smoked. She lit it, puffed, made a face, and exhaled.

  “Would you eat garbage off the floor?” Ismael asked, genuinely curious.

  “I
’ve eaten worse off worse,” she said, not very jovially, despite the wide grin she gave him.

  “How did you contrive to get Darrin away?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, he’s easy, I can play him like a violin. Nah, violin’s too hard, I can play him like a drum. He’ll be occupied for a few hours, so we can amble over there, and me and Nicholas can get set up. So, what, you’re going to hide in the closet or some shit, jump out and say ‘boo’ at him?”

  “No, I’ll stay outside,” Ismael said. “Lurking, as it were, in the shadows. Until he emerges, a broken man.”

  “Nicholas called me this morning, trying to be all nice.” Echo flicked ash off her cigarette. “Like he thought we were going on a date or something. Anyway, we did wonder how mean and nasty we’re supposed to be, here. Should we pretend to be all upset when he walks in on us, all ‘Oh, honey, this isn’t what you think,’ or what?”

  “Be as cruel as you like,” Ismael said. He thought for a moment. “You can even tell him you’re working with me, if you wish.”

  “Because . . . you want him to bash your head in with a rock as soon as he sees you?” The idea seemed to amuse her.

  Ismael shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll know the truth soon enough. Once he’s broken, once he can see the briarpatch clearly, I’ll be able to enlist him to my cause.”

  “Riiiight. Because you know the guy really well. Me, I think it’ll be more like the head-bashing scenario, but what do I know? I’ve only been fucking him and listening to his pillow talk for months, right? Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

  “That indifference is what I value most in you, Echo. When will Darrin be out of the house?”

  She shrugged. “I doubt he’s even out of bed yet. I’ll call in a while and make sure he’s gone, then we can head over.” She belched. “Mind if I just hang out here until then?”

  “You want to pillage the legacy room again, don’t you?” He picked up his coffee cup, feeling the remnants of heat through the ceramic.