The Everything Box

by Richard Kadrey

  “I thought it was more like a hundred pounds of head cheese,” said the Magister.

  “That too, Dark High One.”

  Acolyte Three swayed. “Do you mind if I sit, sir? I’m not feeling so good.”

  “Of course. Get him a chair, Adept,” said the Magister.

  Adept Six went to the back of the room and came back with a folding chair. He set it down and Acolyte Three dropped into it heavily.

  “Put your head between your knees,” said the Magister.

  The acolyte leaned over and said, “Yes, Dark High One,” his voice muffled by his legs.

  “I swear, if you puke here in the sacred chamber . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean, this place smells bad enough, what with the grease from the fryers downstairs and the fumes from room 8.”

  “It’ll be okay. I promise,” said Acolyte Three.

  “Good boy,” said the Magister. “So, Adept Six, what are we doing about the room?”

  “Well, Dark High One, a few of the other Adepts and Acolytes have taken turns cleaning it, but they can only work so long. I mean, you’ve seen it.”

  “Yes. Yes. I understand. Still, we need to get on it.”

  “I understand. We’re making good headway. We need to get some bleach and a few of those paint respirators.”

  The Magister narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose you want to use Lodge money for the cleaning supplies.”

  Adept Six shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, it is sort of Lodge business, sir.”

  “How much?”

  “I have a list of what we need in my jacket. If you’ll wait a minute . . .”

  The Magister waved a hand at him. “Down, boy. I trust you. Here, take this,” he said and handed the tithe bag back to the adept. “Take it out of there, but I want change. And receipts.”

  “Yes, Dark High One,” he said. “Thank you.”

  The Magister shook his head. “Ever since we lost the meeting space in Burbank, it’s been one thing after another. We need to get room 8 back in service. The restaurant downstairs isn’t bringing in enough to even pay the taxes on this building. We need tenants and we need them yesterday.”

  “We’re on it,” said Adept Six.

  The Magister leaned forward to get a better look at Acolyte Three and immediately regretted it as pain shot up his back. “How are you doing down there, Acolyte? Still seasick?”

  “I’m doing better, thank you, Dark High One. If I can just stay down here a little longer.”

  “Of course, of course. Take all the time you need. We don’t want two rooms that have to be bleached.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The Magister turned his attention back to Adept Six. “What did you find in there? Anything that might point to who did it?”

  Adept Six went to the closet and pulled out a cardboard box with FROZEN COD printed on the side. He brought it to the Magister.

  “Show me,” said the old man.

  Adept Six removed a plastic take-out bag he’d snagged from the restaurant and handed it to the Magister. The old man reached in and pulled out a broken box.

  “Ah. I’ve been looking for that. At least now we know what he was trying to sell.”

  “An old box?”

  “Not just any old box,” said the Magister testily. “Well, yes, this happens to be any old box, but I suspect that Frank had convinced whoever turned him into a meat bottle rocket that this was the Convocation Vessel.”

  “To call back Lord Abaddon? I’ve never seen it before.”

  The Magister dropped his hands to his sides. “You’re not looking at it now, you ninny. This is just something we have around for paper clips.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “What a little shit he was, trying to run off with one of our holiest relics. He almost deserved what he got.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Dark High One.”

  The Magister pushed his ass back farther on the golden Barcalounger to straighten his back. “Do you have anything else in your toy chest?”

  Adept Six set down the box and started going through the other bags inside. “Mostly it’s bits and pieces, so to speak. A class ring. Frank’s Lodge medallion. A few teeth, some with gold fillings. We thought maybe his family might want some of the stuff.”

  “Is that all?”

  “A couple of things, but this is the most interesting.” Adept Six handed the Magister a folded piece of paper, which, though dry, was stained a rusty red with Frank sauce.

  The Magister opened the paper with his fingertips, spreading it out on his lap. He peered at it. “What am I looking at? It’s a flyer for a bake sale.”

  “That’s not all, sir. Look at the bottom.”

  The Magister’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. He had to squint just to make out the pornographic pastries. “What’s that oatmeal raisin cookie doing to the Bundt cake?”

  Adept Six reached over the flyer and pointed to the bottom corner. “Look here.”

  The old man’s eyes grew wide.

  The Dark High Magister of the Cladis Abaddonis Lodge was one of a long line of priests that stretched back many centuries. The Lodge had been in continuous existence almost since people could scribble on paper. Naturally, as soon as they could scribble shapes, some people didn’t want to let other people see them. Only a special few of their choosing. The right kind of people. And they kicked the ass of anyone who peeked. That’s basically how secret societies were born. The Cladis Abaddonis Lodge had been one of the first and most secretive of these.

  Of course, their existence did come to light during the unpleasantness with the Inquisition and they had to disband for a while. The members were just as devout as ever, but they worshipped privately, having seen what the Inquisition did to anyone it considered a heretic—which, at the time, was pretty much everybody. For a variety of reasons, none of them wanted any hot implements shoved up, in, or around any part of their body. They were quiet for almost four hundred years, popping up again in 1835, after the last Inquisitor put his pointy hood in its pointy hood case and tucked it away with the thumbscrews, iron maidens, and other knickknacks of ecclesiastical persuasion.

  On one of the few written tests he’d passed, even Frank had been able to guess who had ratted them out to the Inquisition and forced them underground.

  Now those bastards were having a bake sale.

  “Is this what I think it is?” said the Magister, squinting harder than ever.

  “Yes, Dark High One. It’s the seal of the Caleximus cult,” said Adept Six.

  “Who?” called Acolyte Three, still staring at the floor.

  “The Caleximus cult, nefarious ball bags who’ve made our lives a misery since Lord Abaddon was knee-high to a jellyfish. This will be the bunch who blew up Frank.”

  Adept Six shrugged. “That makes sense, sir. It was the only mystically related thing we found in there that didn’t come from our closet.”

  The Magister crumpled the paper in his hand. “Then that settles it. They want the box to set off their false Apocalypse before we can set off our true one,” he said. “I tell you what, Acolyte Three, we’re going cookie shopping, and when we do, we will bring the wrath of Abaddon down on their heads like a shit-ton of bricks.”

  “Yes, Dark High One!”

  “Yay,” said Acolyte Three weakly, head still down.

  “Anything else in there?” said the Magister. He held up a bag on which someone had scrawled DRY ICE with a marker. “What’s in this?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Adept Six. “We need to get it looked at. It might be another clue. Or just a piece of Frank’s liver.”

  That’s when Acolyte Three’s stomach let go.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE BEVERLY CENTER MALL SAT AT THE CORNER OF Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega, on the edge of Beverly Hills in that magical land where residents shopped purely by designer names and not prices. People caught looking at price tags were shunned and, w
hile not physically exiled, mentally dispatched to the same shadowy hinterlands reserved for tourists in flip-flops, accordions, and pre-Dorothy flying monkeys.

  When Coop finally exited the Beverly Center, he was both happy and a little shell-shocked. Coop was a price tag looker, and every salesperson in the Center spotted him as one the moment he entered. His clothes were ill-fitting enough that, at best, he’d borrowed them. At worst, he’d held up a Goodwill and stolen the first few things he’d seen on the sales rack. If Coop had known any of the rules of the upscale he might have done what any sensible person in his position would do: stand in the mall’s atrium and shout, “I’m an ex-con with money. Dress me for adulthood.” At least being a jailbird would have given him the exotic frisson of a Tibetan mastiff puppy or an Abyssinian cat, because there’s nothing people with money like to do more than dress up their expensive pets. But Coop didn’t know any of this, so he slunk around different men’s boutiques, fingering fabrics he’d only heard about in legends, gasping at prices he thought must be in pesos, not dollars, and generally revealing himself to be everything the Beverly Center hated: a reminder that while they were near Beverly Hills, they weren’t quite in it, so the broke and the clueless could invade their space at will.

  But Coop was a jailbird and had done enough time to stroll through other people’s loathing without giving much of a shit. And it gave him pure pleasure to watch salespeople’s attitudes do a 180 when he pulled out a pile of the cash payoff he’d received from Mr. Babylon.

  In the end, even with security guards following him around every store and salespeople giving him the side eye, he walked out of the Beverly Center with two suits, a couple of extra shirts, and a pair of Italian shoes. He didn’t quite have the heart to wear either of the suits yet, but after some encouragement from a pretty saleswoman, he’d put on the shoes, a pair of new slacks, and one of the extra shirts. Coop felt like a million bucks as he stood on Beverly Boulevard looking for a cab. He felt slightly less so when a black windowless van pulled up and a man with a gun motioned for him to get inside. Coop was a sensible crook and knew that if he made a break for it in brand-new leather-soled shoes on pavement he was probably going to end up flat on his ass. And maybe with a bullet in the back. So, he did what any sensible crook would do. He got in the van.

  Inside, the man with the gun slammed the van door closed and knocked the packages out of Coop’s hands.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  Coop did it and felt a blindfold going over his eyes. Then the gunman turned Coop back around and pushed him into a seat across from him. Before the lights had gone out, Coop had seen a young woman in sensible office attire. She didn’t look like quite as big a creep as the guy with the gun. When she finally spoke she said, “Would you state your name for the record?”

  “Wait,” Coop said. “You kidnapped me and you don’t know who I am?”

  “I just need to verify your identity.”

  “In that case, I’m Benjamin Harrison, twenty-third president of the United States.”

  “Please be serious. It will make things easier for everyone, including you.”

  “Is this a gag?” Coop said, starting to get angry. Then his guts went cold. “Are you working for Eddie?”

  “Who’s Eddie?” said someone Coop assumed was the gunman.

  “Never mind. My poodle groomer. Who are you?”

  “Your new best friends.

  “If that’s the case, why don’t you take this blindfold off and we can all have a group hug?”

  “Not a chance, sugar pants.”

  Coop took a deep breath. He hated being this freaked out, but he knew not to show it. He tried to think of something brave to say, but instead all he could croak was, “You sure you’re not with Eddie?”

  “Is your name Charles Cooper, no middle name?” said the woman.

  “No middle name. That’s me.”

  He could hear her typing something into a laptop. When she was finished she said, “Why don’t we take off the blindfold? The van is blacked out and he’s going to see us soon enough.”

  “I’ve already seen you,” Coop said.

  “See? He’s already seen us.”

  The gunman sounded annoyed. “You suck the fun out of everything.”

  “He thinks we’re here to kill him. That’s not a good way to begin a business relationship,” said the woman.

  “That’s what I’m talking about right there. Work, work, work. I bet when you saw Star Wars all you thought about was Darth Vader’s quarterly review. He lost the princess. He choked an officer.”

  “Well, he did let the Death Star get blown up,” said the woman.

  “See? I knew it.”

  “Please take it off him.”

  “Fine. But only because I know you won’t shut up about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man jerked Coop’s head forward and began fiddling with the blindfold knot. While he did it Coop said, “I know a good marriage counselor in the Valley if you kids want to make a stop.”

  Finally, the blindfold came off and the gunman shoved Coop back in his seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. “Shut up and go back to worrying about your poodle,” he said.

  “He’s man’s best friend,” Coop said. He studied the cuffs. They looked well made, with hard locks to pick.

  The gunman shook his head. “No. This is man’s best friend.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a drink.

  “Mind if I have a snort, seeing as how we’re all friends?” Coop held out his hands.

  The man with the gun smiled at him and took another drink.

  “Why not let him have a little?” said the woman. “It might calm him down.”

  The gunman thought about it and finally handed Coop the flask. He held it up in a toast and then began to drink. It was bourbon. Good stuff, too.

  “Hey, Mr. Greedy, that’s enough. We share around here,” said the gunman. When he came forward to take the flask out of Coop’s cuffed hands, Coop spit a mouthful of whiskey directly into the gunman’s eyes. He screamed and wiped at his face with his hands. Coop kicked him on top of the woman, grabbed the sliding door handle, and pulled it open. He didn’t know how fast they were going or where they were. It looked suburban and upscale. Coop jumped onto a grassy patch near the curb and rolled as best he could. When he scrambled to his feet, he took off running across a series of impossibly green lawns.

  He made it down past a couple of houses and turned abruptly when he saw an open door to a backyard. He ran through. A family—a father, mother, and two kids, a boy and a girl—were having a barbecue. Coop didn’t stop. Neither did the father, flipping burgers as he watched Coop, who jumped up the back fence and pulled himself over as gracefully as he could with his handcuffs.

  It wasn’t all that graceful. He landed on his back. Something behind him squeaked. Coop reached under a butt cheek and came up with a dog’s rubber chew toy. A really big one. He wondered what the hell kind of mutant mutt would find a toy like that fun and not just a taunt. He got his answer when said mutt lumbered out of its doghouse and stretched. It was a Rottweiler with a head the size of a Honda Civic. Okay, it’s big. No problem. Stay low. Move slow. I’m not any threat. That’s right. You keep stretching there, buddy. But when the dog turned in his direction and growled, Coop forgot about the Civic.

  This thing was a Humvee with shark teeth.

  Coop got up slowly, holding his hands before him where the dog could see. He crept across the yard in the direction of the house, saying, “Good dog. Nice puppy,” over and over. He concentrated on walking because when he didn’t, he imagined himself in pieces in the dog’s stomach with nothing but his anklebones sticking out of five-hundred-dollar Italian shoes to mark his grave.

  He couldn’t help thinking about a dragon in a wall he once knew . . .

  Something thumped to the ground behind him. He turned and saw the gunman touching down, the woman close behind him. The dog seemed confused by these new i
ntruders and Coop tried to take advantage of the moment to move a little faster. But the dog’s confusion didn’t last long. Coop was the original interloper and the monster pooch turned and laser-focused its attention on him. Finally Coop broke into a run.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  The dog hit him between the shoulders and drove him facefirst into the grass. With the wind knocked out of him, Coop couldn’t do anything but lie there. A second later, the dog flopped on top of him like a two-hundred-pound bag of furry cement. A minute after that, he felt the beast being rolled off him. He rose to his knees and took a deep breath. No cracked ribs. No chunks of flesh missing. He looked at the dog on its back beside him, a tranquilizer dart in its neck. The woman put a tranq pistol into a holster under her jacket. The gunman hauled him to his feet and perp-walked him to the fence. The man went over first. The woman indicated for Coop to go next, and she brought up the rear.

  The two agents, cops, or kidnapper hobbyists—Coop still hadn’t decided which—took him back the way they’d come.

  “Looks good,” Coop said to the family as the father took a pile of burgers and hot dogs off the grill. None of them said anything. Coop was manhandled back into the van and it took off.

  Once they got moving again, the gunman said, “You tell anyone you took a runner and I’ll make sure you’re eaten by a spider.”

  “Sounds like a big spider,” said Coop.

  “Remember that dog?

  “Yes.”

  “Bigger.”

  Coop spit out some grass that had gotten lodged between his teeth. “Do they let you make decisions like that? I get the feeling you’re the kind of guy if I asked for a decaf, you’d bring me galoshes.”

  The woman covered her mouth and tried to suppress a laugh. The gunman shot her a look.

  “We’ve got a world of fun waiting for you, pal. You messed up good.”

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t explained it to me,” Coop said. He looked at the floor where the man’s feet rested near his new clothes. “Please be careful. Most of that stuff is brand new.”

  The gunman slid open the van door and kicked out the clothes. “Run free, little shirts,” he called after them.