Broken Souls, page 12
“What does the wind want?”
“Fire.” “Mayhem.” “Burning.”
Awesome. Of course it wants fire. Flames are its plaything. All the houses ringing the canyons, the scrub brush and Joshua trees, these are all just toys to it.
“I got a Zippo here somewhere,” I say. I need to stall for time as I figure something out. I need that orb if I want a chance in hell to find this Sergei guy. But I can’t set off a brushfire. Twenty years ago there was nothing here. Scrub brush, empty lots. Some ranches, crazy coots living in Bucky-Dome houses in the desert. But now? Thousands of people have moved out here for cheap land. I passed half a dozen housing projects and big box stores on my way up here. A brushfire would be devastating.
“Not here.” “Not this place.” “Your lands.”
“Uh. I live in Burbank. Sort of.”
“It doesn’t know.” “How does it not know?” “The king does not know his own home.” Then, with one voice. “Go home. Set it ablaze. Promise that and we will help you.”
I am liking this less and less. I have no idea what home they’re talking about, or why they think I’m a king of anything. Nature spirits sometimes speak in riddles, but this is a bit much even for the stupid ones. But if they think I’m someone else, someone important, it might work to my advantage. I’m happy to make promises somebody else has to keep.
“Deal.”
“The promise is made.” “The lands will burn.” “Take the sphere.” I reach out and pick up the orb. All the dust and dirt that makes it up has been compressed into a smooth, polished sphere that feels like quartz. Heavy and crystalline. Deep inside I can see a faint glow on one side. I turn it this way and that but the glow stays pointed in the same direction. Southwest. Towards L.A.
“It will take time.” “We know.” “To claim your throne.”
“I’m sure it will,” I say. Especially since I’m not this king they think I am.
“A warning,” one says. “Watch the false friend,” it says. “Beware the dead king.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Hunt well.” “New king.” “Eric Carter.” And with one voice, “King of the dead.”
Hot winds blow up around me, kicking up dust and dirt. I close my eyes against the blast of grit, cover my nose and mouth. A moment later the winds disappear, and all that’s left is a scoured patch of rock around me and those final words in my head, chilling me to the bone.
Eric Carter. King of the dead.
They knew my name. Of course they knew my name. You don’t hide much from the fucking winds. Any hope that they were confusing me with someone else is gone. Wishful thinking, anyway.
I swerve the Hummer across lanes on the 14 as a truck barrels up my ass. I’ve been so focused on what the wind said to me that I’d completely forgotten what I’d done to the Hummer. I pull over to the side of the freeway, gravel and dust kicking up behind me. I get out to obliterate the camouflage spell I’d written on the side of the car as best I can with the Sharpie, trucks and cars barreling past me. This is almost as bad as changing a tire out here.
I get the markings erased, grab the orb and walk down the embankment. I need to clear my head, figure out what the hell is going on without worrying about getting my ass run over. I lean against a rock big enough to sit on and look up into the sky. Twenty years ago you’d see nothing but stars out here, a thick field of them away from the glare of Los Angeles proper. But now the sky is a hazy, dark blue, light bleeding up into it from all the nearby developments. The winds are already starting to pick up. I wonder if we’ll get a full-on Santa Ana tonight from what I did, if the desert will burn. I hope not. It’s not like the wind promised it wouldn’t burn it all down. I take a deep breath of cold, desert air, try to clear my head. What the hell happened back there? What is this whole king business? There’s something I’m just not putting together.
A smell of smoke and roses and a burn in the new tattoo is the only warning I get before I hear “You’ve had a busy night, husband.” I turn and see Santa Muerte standing about five feet away, her wedding gown glowing faintly and looking in the wrong direction.
“You still can’t see me, can you?”
She turns her head. “I was admiring the landscape,” she says.
“Sure. What do you want now?”
“To see that you are safe. You dealt with powerful magic tonight. I would have come sooner, but,” she points vaguely in my direction, “that mark you put on yourself clouds my vision.”
“Then it was worth every penny. You seem awful concerned about my safety. If that’s the case where were you last night when I was getting my ass handed to me?”
She says nothing.
“Uh huh. Look, I still don’t know what the hell you want from me. You haven’t actually given me anything to do. Vague, cryptic, ‘I need you safe’ shit just makes me antsy. And seriously, if you need me safe, where the fuck were you last night?” That magical Faraday cage might have kept her from sensing me, but what about after? Or before?
“You were in safe hands.”
“Safe hands? Yeah, those demons were excellent hosts. I particularly liked how that little one did that whole snake jaw thing.”
“You do your best to hide yourself from me and then complain that I’m not there to help,” she says.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than for you to fuck off and never come back. But I do want to know what the hell your game is.”
“And I yours,” she says. “We had an agreement and I believe you are trying to maneuver your way out of it.”
“No shit. Ya think?” I show her the wedding ring on my finger, the gold glinting in the glare of the headlights speeding by on the freeway. “This I did not sign up for. Your enforcer, your assistant, whatever. Your husband? I don’t fucking think so. I want an annulment.”
“I think it is a bit late for that,” she says. “We are linked, whether you like it or not. You know the consequences of my displeasure.”
“So help me if you try anything,” I say, “if you even think about hurting anyone again—”
“You spoke with the winds,” she says, interrupting me. “What did they tell you?”
So she couldn’t eavesdrop on my conversation with them? Interesting. I still don’t know what she can and can’t do. It’s maddening. “They gave me the name of the man who’s been trying to kill me.”
“And nothing else?”
“I didn’t ask for anything else,” I say. “Why? Should they have?”
“No,” she says. “You should take care who you listen to. Lies abound.”
“So I’ve noticed. Are we done here? I’ve got to get back to town. I got some guy I need to hunt down and murder and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
My phone rings. I let it go a couple times before picking up. MacFee. “Yeah.” I don’t take my eyes of Santa Muerte.
“Holy fuck you’re alive,” he says. “Wait. Is this you? Like really you? Not like skinned you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s really me.” Though I have no idea how I could possibly prove that. Or how he could prove he’s him. Jesus. Talk about getting paranoid. But then I wonder who the hell would want to take MacFee’s skin and relax a bit.
“Oh, cool. I thought you were dead or somebody else by now. I heard about the Bruja’s hotel.”
“Yeah? Who told you?”
“She did. Or, her secretary did. The girl, Gabriela? Just got off the phone with her. Wanted me to get her in touch with you.”
“Why didn’t you just give her my number?”
“Dude. I don’t just give out numbers. That’s unprofessional. Anyway, she says she needs to see you. Tonight. There’s a warehouse down by the L.A. river. I’ll text you the address.”
“So you’ll give me her address, but not her phone number?” Silence. “Are you sure it’s her?” I say.
“Of course. I asked her the same thing. I’m not stupid.” No, but he is freaked out. MacFee’s a go-to guy, not someone who lands in the thick of things.
I have no idea if Gabriela is still Gabriela or if Sergei got hold of her. There is one way to tell, though. I glance down at the orb in my hand. The glow has gotten brighter since I left Vasquez Rocks, but it’s still faint. If Sergei’s in the area then it should tip me off before it’s too late.
“Okay. Send me the address. I’ll meet her in a few hours. Hey, you spread the word about Kettleman?”
“Yeah. And people are losin’ their shit. Word is that somebody tracked down the police report. I don’t know how they know but I’m hearing that people are sure that the body in the morgue is his. And since some people are still seeing him walking around they’re givin’ him a lotta space.”
“Good. If that keeps them away from him, so much the better. Might keep some of them alive.”
“Yeah, well that’s the good news. Bad news is that folks aren’t too sure about you. You sure you didn’t kill him?”
“Yes, I’m sure. No, I can’t prove it. But hey, if it keeps people out of my way, that works, too. You ever hear of a guy named—” I pause. Do I want Santa Muerte to know this? Or does she already? “Sergei Gusarov?” I finally say. “Big Russian guy. Prison tats. Looks like he did time back in the mother country.”
“Shit. Gusarov? Seriously?”
“So you know him? Has a sister, too. Katya.”
“I know of him, yeah. He used to work for Ben Griffin as a leg breaker. Normal. No magic. Really good at breakin’ legs, though. And other stuff.”
“Huh. You seen him around lately?”
“No, but I heard about him a few months ago. Griffin had a bunch of Russian ex-cons working for him. Normals. Maybe a little talent here and there. Guys the mob didn’t want. I don’t know how, but he was able to keep ’em in line. When Griffin got killed I heard Gusarov started pulling them together to do their own thing. Then he sort of dropped off the radar.”
“You hear about any of Griffin’s other people?”
“Here and there. Some of them have pulled together enough that they’re kinda organized. Picking up his rackets. But they’re all going at it like cats in a bag. It hasn’t spilled out onto the street, yet, but you know it’s gonna eventually. One group takes somebody out, another takes another out. Quiet, but it’s happening. From what I hear nobody really wants to get the cops involved.”
“What if Sergei’s playing them against each other? These are all quiet hits? Evidence left behind pointing a finger at somebody else?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t really know. I can see if I can find out anything, though.”
Yeah, this is a power grab, all right. And now that he’s got the knife he can do it even better. Hell, instead of just killing somebody, he could take their skin, take over their life. Hit the right guys and he could run the rackets in the whole fucking city.
“How much?”
“I am offended,” MacFee says. “This is my community. This is a threat to my well-being. I can’t possibly do it for less than a thousand.”
“Yeah? That on top of whatever you’re billing the Bruja and me for this messenger service?”
“I’ll roll that in for free.”
“Nice to see some things never change. Let me know what you find out.”
“On it, chief. I’ll put it on your tab. Talk to you later.” He clicks off.
“That was enlightening,” Santa Muerte says when I hang up.
“Was it?”
“This Sergei Gusarov. I know that name. A dangerous man.”
“Yeah, well he’s—” I catch myself. No reason to go volunteering information. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I finish.
“I have no doubt. Go and take care of him. We will speak later about what the wind did or did not tell you.” A breeze blows up a dust devil of sand and grit. There’s that smell of cigar smoke and roses and when the air clears of dust she’s gone.
A moment later my phone buzzes and a text with the warehouse address pops up on the screen. Third and Mission. That’s east of the river and just off the 5. From where I am it should take me less than an hour to get there.
I don’t know what happened to Gabriela after the hotel went up. It could be a trap. Only one way to find out. I make my way back to the Hummer and get back onto the freeway. All right, Bruja, let’s find out if you’re still you.
___
I pull off the freeway at Fourth Street. Downtown in the distance just over the bridge. Barred windows on graffitied houses, billboards advertising telenovelas, sodas, long-distance phone service, everything in Spanish. Houses give way to light commercial, the occasional abandoned storefront. Then warehouses, industrial, manufacturing. Smell of diesel from the trains across the river.
I pull up Mission and a couple blocks later look for a place to park. It’s after midnight and you’d expect the only cars on this street would be trucks heading out or coming in from the train depot. But the street is crawling with them. Beat up Tercels, Maximas, Hondas. Handful of custom lowriders, kind you’d see bouncing their rear ends on Crenshaw. Couple brand-new muscle cars. They’re all centered on one multistory warehouse with delivery trucks and more cars in the yard, loading docks and a top floor with lots of windows. So either I’ve taken a wrong turn and landed on the world’s quietest warehouse party, or this is the place.
I look at the orb on the passenger seat. It’s brighter, but not by much. How much brighter is it supposed to get? Like, nightlight brighter? Noonday sun brighter? When otherworldly beings hand out magical artifacts it’d be nice if every once in a while they’d include a fucking manual.
I drive around a couple of times looking for people and watching the orb to see if it gets any brighter or points toward the warehouse before I park the Hummer behind a Chevy Bel-Air halfway through a custom refit. I don’t see anyone, but I don’t doubt there are some guys in the top floor of the building with rifles looking out through the windows. I consider sliding over to the other side, but when I get out of the car I can see that won’t work.
This is the Bruja’s new place, all right. Same wards she had at the Edgewood, but these are even more impressive. Given what she ran into there I’m not surprised that she beefed up security here. I’d kinda hoped I could sneak in, but there’s no way I’m getting in via the dead side. She’s got the whole thing warded against ghosts, demons, constructs, probably even Scientologists and Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’m not entirely sure I’ll get in just walking through the front door.
Only one way to find out, I suppose. I consider drawing the Browning, but that would probably just get me shot. Instead I take the orb with me and walk toward the open gate leading to the parking lot. The orb didn’t change much during my drive around the property and the glow kept pointing to the west. If it really is tuned to Sergei, he’s not in there.
I stop at the open gate, energy buzzing along my skin. She’s not fucking around. Some of these wards aren’t just the “keep out” variety. If the wrong thing crosses the threshold they’ll kill it. Here’s hoping I’m on the guest list. I step into the parking lot.
And I don’t explode. So that’s a plus. But immediately a couple doors and the loading bays open up, and a dozen cholos with AKs pour out and surround me. They all look scared and trigger happy. I put my hands in the air.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “I got an invite.” One of them comes up to me to take the orb from my hand. “Try it and you’re pulling back a stump.” I think my eyes are helping because he backs off and rejoins his buddies covering me.
“The fuck are you, man?” one of them says. I don’t recognize any of them from the hotel. Probably all those guys died.
“I’m here to talk to your boss.”
“She don’t talk to nobody. You want an audience, you gotta get through us.”
“Jesus, are you dumbfucks serious? This is a test, isn’t it? She sent you out here to see if I’d do anything stupid. To see if I’m really me. Fine.” I look up at the bank of windows on the second floor. If she’s watching this, she’s probably up there.
“Hey. It’s me,” I yell. “Like really. And I know you’re you. This thing in my hand? It’ll track the Russian. And since I’m not getting a read from it, I know he’s not here. And I got his name. Worked for Griffin. Now can you get the gangbangers to lower their guns so we can actually talk?”
No answer. The cholos are looking even more nervous. Some of them are starting to sweat. I wonder if I said boo they’d shit themselves. Or just freak out and shoot me. But god, it’s so tempting.
“We’re doing this?” I yell. “If I were him wearing my skin, do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to show up like this? Alone? After what happened in the hotel? Thanks for pulling me out of the fire, by the way. Appreciate it.”
One of the gangbangers puts a hand to his ear and I can see that he’s wearing a radio. “She says he’s cool.” Guns lower, everyone lets out a collective breath.
“I ain’t scared of you,” one of them says, clearly feeling the need to reassert the size of his penis.
“Then you’re an idiot,” I say.
Gabriela steps out onto concrete ledge of the loading bay, machete over her shoulder. “You’re alive.”
“More or less,” I say. “I hear you—” I stop myself, wondering if any of these guys know who she is. “I hear the Bruja took out that thing that bit me.”
She waves it off. “I’m done hiding,” she says. “They know.”
I look at the assembled troops. “So you guys know how much of a badass she is, right?” From the fact that half of them are afraid to look at her and the others are standing in rapt silence waiting for her next move, I’d say yes.
“Come on in,” she says. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“You look like you’re auditioning for a Che Guevara biopic,” I say. She has bandages on her face, stitches in her forehead. Wearing Doc Martens, camo cargo pants, a black t-shirt with the words “BULLETS CAN’T HURT ME” on the front in iron-on letters.
“Yeah, just need a red beret and I’m all set,” she says. “Most of my clothes went up with the hotel.”
