Mercy had been right. Blood sacrifices might be in order.
I gash him high on forehead with the razor and blood pours into his eyes. He doesn't feel any pain yet and just says, "What...? What are you doing to me?" Then I slice again in the same place, right at the base of his hairline. The flesh parts like muslin cloth. I grab hold of his hair and wrench it. His scalp starts to come off.
Jenks takes one long, deep breath, inflating his lungs and readying himself to scream. I drive a nasty left hook under his heart and cut his wind off. Then I pull on his hair even harder and feel half of his head of hair tear free from his skull. It flaps sideways exposing the burnished skull beneath. In the moonlight, it seems to beam.
"I think I'll want her the whole night for five hundred," I say. "I'll tally up with Mercy, right?"
I hammer him across the jaw and let him fall away into weeds, slipping back into darkness.
The ritual is almost over. Most of the coven members were just bored twenty-somethings looking for a way to kill part of the evening before hitting Grimm's top shelf. The White Queen speaks a final blessing, with Mercy still praying at the tree in the center of the clearing. The others begin to split up, walking back to the house. I heft the flashlight and Kip comes towards me.
"Quite a performance," I say.
He takes affront. "This was the real thing. We were calling down power. We were fueling our own destinies. Taking matters into our own hands."
"Is that right?"
His teeth are tiny, sharp, and yellow. "Jenks tell you how much we wanted?"
"He did," I say. "So, if you're really into witchcraft shit then how do you split your focus between calling down Three-Together-in-the-Blind-Eye and Hildegrance while playing the pimp?"
"Hey, you don't have to go for it. It's your choice. But it'll be a waste, I can tell you that. You've never had anyone like Mercy before."
"Yeah?"
"I know."
"You know?"
"I know."
I turn and look at her speaking words I can't catch. I hear Ricky's name, but I always hear Ricky's name. The White Queen stands near, the dagger in her hand. The lunatics in Pioneer State are smoking good weed and putting out the roaches in one of their handmade ashtrays. Laughing at us, so ludicrous down here. Tomorrow when they roam the grounds of the hospital there will be even more toxic blood coursing through the veins of the earth.
"Where's Jenks?" Kip asks.
"Right at your feet."
He swings his flashlight down and spots his friend there, his fellow pimp, mumbling in an agonized semi-consciousness, his face completely red, his bright skull in view, having taken matters into his own hands, fueling his destiny, and receiving his reward.
In one fluid move I slide my hand into Kip's jacket, dig deep until I find the slit to his secret pocket, and get my fingers around his butterfly blade. I whirl it open but don't withdraw it. I get my left arm around his throat and turn into him with the knife, slashing upwards. He screams beneath my palm and I tighten my hold even more. I angle the blade between his ribs and prod it about an inch into his lung. I can practically hear it deflate.
Kip begins sucking air through his teeth, hardly able to breathe, wheezing in mockery to the blowing wind. I leave the knife in him and dump him beside his buddy in the brush.
I walk to the coven tree.
The White Queen sees me coming and the athame spins her rotund body about, the point aimed at my face this time, as she recites spells of protection. She draws a six-pointed star in the air, the moon flashing off the edge of the knife and leaving an after-image behind it. "Come no farther, Black Shuck. I stand at the right hand of Michael, he who is Machen, and Gabriel, he who is Shamain, and Cameol, he who is Machon."
"You point that at me one more time, fatso," I say, "and I'm going to have to stick it in your eye."
Mercy tries to get to her feet but was having a hard time of it, still tapped out from the delirious dancing, a confused expression on her face.
With a sickly war cry, the White Queen rears and lunges at me. She has a lot of horsepower behind her and nearly bowls me over. The athame slashes again leaving a silver moonlit trail behind in my eyes as I feel a sting in my chest. She's nicked me.
She lashes out again and I punch her in the stomach. My fist sinks in six inches. She lets out a sickly, "Ooof!" and drops onto her face. I snatch up the dagger and kick her in her fat ass. The rage is more powerful than the tide, washing over me, drowning me, commanding me.
"Go on back home, lady. You can start looking for new members tomorrow."
She turns over and glares at me. "The spirits dwell inside you."
"If your husband shows up with any of his guns, I'm going to have to kill him. You understand that?"
"Satanus infernus, you're an empty shell animated with disease and malfeasance. Black Shuck. Black Shuck. Do you even realize it? You're inhabited. You're possessed. You're dead. You're long dead."
I've been dead so many times I can't count them anymore. I was killed by my father over and over when I was a boy. On the ward they murdered us by inches with electricity and water. My first night in prison I pulled a seven man train and was left deader than hell. Of course I am as dead as Gary, as dead as Ricky, as dead as Linda. Isn't everybody?
"You're getting on my nerves, lady."
I draw my arm back and smack her in the forehead with the pommel of the blade. It makes a sickening thud but I don't feel her skull fracture beneath the blow. She would probably live.
Then I am finally alone with Mercy.
The grin is still there on her pouty lips, murdering me. It is as much a part of her as anything else. The raven glowers. I want to catch its neck in my teeth.
"How are you feeling?" I ask her.
"Starting to come down a little."
"That's too bad."
"What's happened?" She stares at the White Queen. "What's happening?"
"Just a little mischief."
Her eyes unfocus again, that harlequin smile beginning to flatten out some. I shake her hard and she looks at me, and a subtle snake of fear begins to slither into her expression.
"Only five hundred, huh?" I ask. "You sure you're not selling yourself short?" I open my wallet and toss bills at her. Tens, twenties, singles. I snap my credit cards against her face. "Visa okay?"
"Don't, please–"
Don't, please. I beg the rage to release me. I call for my mother to find the strength to help form beyond the veil. I feel Baphomet at my left hand, Ricky at my right. I call on Gary Lowers to aid me in this time of need, and he refuses. He asks why I never buried him. He asks why I didn't call the police. He asks for his mother as I ask for mine.
I put a hand to the pulse in her neck and say, "Your heart's racing."
"I'm scared. You...you..."
"Don't be afraid, Mercy."
I reach into her wild curls and get my hands around the razor wire. My fingers begin to bleed immediately. I unwind the wreath of barbs and pull it free. She squeals in pain and a pulse of blood arcs against my cheek.
"What are you?" she asks. "Are you...are you Nephilim? Askiel, Uthrick...?
"...Pommerance, Tico-Tico...Bathal, Bathei, Winter's Leg..."
"Are you abomination?"
"You really want to find out?" I ask.
She nods, but tears well and she sniffles and whimpers, "Oh God–"
"I'm mischief. I'm corruption. Maybe I'm salvation. Whatever you desire, Mercy...remember, it costs."
"No, you're–" She falls into my arms one more time and I force my mouth against hers and let my teeth slide down across the raven. I bite hard and she screams. "Please–give me...no...!"
"I'm just a man, baby," I say, alive in rage, alive in death, alive with my black life, pressing her back against the coven tree and then drawing her down beside me in the field. Something breaks inside my chest that might be a laugh or might be my heart. Venom fills my mouth. I kiss her and she struggles. I twist the razor wire ar
ound her throat, tug gently, and she lets out an erotic moan. She tries to pull away and her throat spurts. I'd watched her closely. All I had to do was tighten my draw a little more, saw back and forth, and her head would come off.
Her eyes are black and full of terror, awe, and desire, the same as mine. "I'm everything you need," I tell her, and I am.
PART III
RECOGNITION
1.
Ricky's shadow follows me down through the years. I put my violent tendencies to work and become a narc. They say you can't be a police officer if you've got a felony jacket but narcotics and vice play by their own set of rules. My partners are gung ho and staunch men of justice when they're not robbing dealers or acting as couriers for the mob. The Teflon Don keeps us all busy, whether we're trying to bring him in or keep him out of jail. Old-timers on the force all have definitive lines between right and wrong, and cross them freely without conscience.
I take money. I let big shots go. I don't rock the lifeboat. I bully informants. I shack with whores. I keep the streets clean. I work my beat in Manhattan and rise through the ranks. The mayor personally pins medals on my chest. The headlines hail a hero. I do what's expected of me, mostly. On occasion, when the world grows too wide beyond the windshield of my patrol car, and there's a sheen on the glass as if it's stained by spit-up blood, I drive around the worst neighborhoods in the five boroughs, and find where the mutilated bodies are laid out in the open.
In the woods, the alleys, and abandoned apartment buildings in the meat packing district, the corpses rest. I talk and they listen. I watch over them before the kids come around, leading their friends in packs. The teens always come ready to party, and we share a beer or a J or a girl, and play out the continuous rituals of the ages. Sometimes they try and outplay me. They're packed and I'm packed. Every so often it leads to a shootout or a knife fight or a bloodletting. So far I haven't been taken down, but there's always the chance, and I keep hoping.
Ricky's shadow is often nearby, gesturing, sniggering. I spot it from time to time, falling across the faces of friends and strangers. He knew if his legend was going to transcend itself, the meaning of it all had to remain a mystery. A riddle that would continue to fuel and reflect the times, his name spoken in whispers, carved alongside the name of Satan. He had to die in a grand gesture, by his own hand. He urges me to do the same.
Three more years have gone by and Linda and Gwen live together in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Linda's still in a wheelchair. They go to mass twice a week. They usually arrive at church in time for Vespers. I sit in the back pew and watch. I stare at Christ. Christ stares at me.
Teens whittle down the posts and benches of the gazebo in Cow Harbor Park, carving SAY YOU LOVE SATAN and SAY YOU LOVE RICKY and RICKY LIVES FOREVER and RICKY BURNS IN HELL.
The last time I visited her in her apartment, hiding in shadow, her eyes shot open and she sat straight up in bed. She aimed her gaze at the corner where I hid and said, "The Acid King, he's behind you." She smiled and let out a sharp bark of laughter before easing her head back down to the pillow. She watched me closely for thirty seconds, then shut her eyes again. Gwen rushed in and said, "I know you're here."
I make more busts. I lose a partner. I'm under investigation for bribes. I beat the rap.
At dawn, the crows tap at my window and get me moving early. I run through Central Park as the sun fires the horizon. The wind's got my name on it, and I keep turning, looking, knowing it's going to happen again.
Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I don't want to.
As I come around a bend in the trail I see a group of kids hunched over her, a woman dressed in a yellow running suit, now covered in blood. I can see how it'll go down for the world, the headlines, the cultural icon she's about to become, as famous as Ricky. The Central Park Jogger, that has the right ring. I sprint towards them, shouting for them to halt, halt, and then, finally, as I am meant to do, calling Ricky's name. They rise from her, buckling their belts, wiping their mouths. They wag their chins at me and gesture like we're old friends. One of them has taken her eye. It stares. It finds me. It recognizes me. He smiles before he runs off, holding her eye above his head like a trophy, and as he tosses it and catches it, flings it and snatches it, grinning, the trees bend over and bow down to him.
A preview of a few of Tom Piccirilli's other works
"LOTS OF BUZZ AND THE START OF A NEW SERIES."—Library Journal
"PERFECT CRIME FICTION."—Lee Child
Don't miss Tom Piccirilli's highly anticipated new novel
The Last Kind Words
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Hardcover: 978-0-553-59248-1
eBook: 978-0-553-90635-6
Audio download: 978-0-307-98960-4
"You don't choose your family. And the Rand clan, a family of thieves, is bad to the bone. But it's a testimony to Tom Piccirilli's stellar writing that you still care about each and every one of them. The Last Kind Words is at once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind."—LISA UNGER
"For the first time since The Godfather, a family of criminals has stolen my heart. This is a brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption."—NANCY PICKARD
"A stunning story that ranges far afield at times but never truly leaves home, a place where shadows grow in every corner. It's superbly told, with prose that doesn't mess about or flinch from evil."—DANIEL WOODRELL
***** READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK *****
I'd come five years and two thousand miles to stand in the rain while they prepared my brother for his own murder.
He had two weeks to go before they strapped him down and injected poison into his heart. I knew Collie would be divided about it, the way he was divided about everything. A part of him would look forward to stepping off the big ledge. He'd been looking over it his whole life in one way or another.
A different part of him would be full of rage and self- pity and fear. I had no doubt that when the time came he'd be a passive prisoner right up to the moment they tried to buckle him down. Then he'd explode into violence. He was going to hurt whoever was near him, whether it was a priest or the warden or a guard. They'd have to club him down while he laughed. The priest, if he was still capable, would have to raise his voice in prayer to cover my brother's curses.
I was twenty minutes late for my appointment at the prison. The screw at the gate didn't want to let me in because he'd already marked me as a no show. I didn't argue. I didn't want to be there. He saw that I wanted to split and it was enough to compel him to let me stay.
At the prison door, another screw gave me the disgusted once-over. I told him my name, but the sound of it didn't feel right anymore.
"Terry Rand."
The fake ID I'd been living under the past half decade had become a safe harbor, a slim chance to better myself even though I hadn't done much yet. I resented being forced to return to the person I'd once been.
The screw made me repeat my name. I did. It was like ice on my tongue. Then he made me repeat it again. I caught on.
"Terrier Rand."
Expressionless, he led me off to a small side room where I was frisked and politely asked if I would voluntarily succumb to a strip search. I asked what would happen if I said no. He said I wouldn't be allowed to proceed. It was a good enough reason to turn around. I owed my brother nothing. I could return out west and get back to a life I was still trying to believe in and make real.
Even as I decided to leave I was shrugging out of my jacket and kicking off my shoes. I got naked and held my arms up while the screw ran his hands through my hair and checked between my ass cheeks and under my scrotum.
He stared at the dog tattoo that took up the left side of my chest, covering three bad scars. One was from when Collie had stabbed me with the bayonet of a tin Revolutionary War toy soldier when I was seven. I got a deep muscle infection that the doctor had to go digging after, leaving the area a rutted, puckered purple.
The last one I didn't think about. I had made an art of not thinking about it.
The screw took pride in his professional indifference, courteous yet dismissive. But the tattoo caught his attention.
"Your family, you're some serious dog lovers, eh?"
I didn't answer. One last time he checked through my clothes for any contraband. He tossed them back to me and I got dressed.
I was taken to an empty visiting room. I sat in a chair and waited for them to bring Collie in. It didn't matter that there was a wall of reinforced glass between us. I wasn't going to pass him a shiv and we weren't going to shake hands or hug out twenty years of tension. The only time we'd ever touched was when we were trying to beat the hell out of each other. I'd been thinking hard about the reasons for that on the ride back east. How could it be that I had such resentment and animosity for him, and he for me, and yet when he called I came running?
They led him in, draped in chains. He could shuffle along only a few inches at a time, his hands cuffed to a thick leather belt at his waist, his feet separated by a narrow chain, bracelets snapped to his ankles. It took ten minutes to unlock him. The screws retreated and Collie twirled his chair around and sat backward, like always.
Like most mad-dog convicts, prison agreed with him. He was a lot more fit than he'd ever been on the outside. The huge beer belly had been trimmed back to practically nothing, his arms thick and muscular and covered in twisted black veins. There was a new gleam in his eye that I couldn't evaluate.
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