A Bloody Deal, page 11
His mouth sprouted more crooked, shark-like teeth. Rows upon rows, more than she’d seen before, as if he’d been holding back. He tore into Richard's shoulder in a spray of red mist. Richard woke and screamed, a death rattle that shook Grace's soul. Every possible emotion crossed his face. She couldn’t watch anymore yet she was transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away. It went on and on. The surprise in his eyes grew to agony, then anguish, and finally, after a far longer time than Grace could stand, to quiet, accepted misery.
Diavolo pulled away from the slumped form. "Ah. Never thought I'd taste a goodfella. I applaud you, Grace Blackwell, and admit I underestimated you. Farewell."
He turned and dragged Richard behind him by the shirt collar. Grace watched the two until they disappeared behind the row of houses, swallowed whole by the shadows beyond. Despite what her mind told her should be, no trail of blood followed in their wake.
14
Grace stared at her bedroom wall until the sun rose. Red streaks stretched in bloody rivulets, then morphed into burnt orange veins that crept ray by ray into deathly pale-yellow seams.
No memory of driving home. No memory of the rest of her shift. Only the void and the blood that should saturate it.
Something landed on the bed, at her back. Warm and firm, yet soft. A shadow. Her lungs hitched, breath coming in short gasps. She could see it in her mind, leaning toward her neck and opening its razor wire mouth to whisper its threat: “Meow.”
She blinked, then rolled over. Mr. Pawcy licked her nose.
One week. The countdown had reset. Seven days tick tick ticking down, each second booming in relentless rhythm: Who. Next? WHO. NEXT?
Unable to take it anymore, she tossed off the sheets. Mr. Pawcy skittered to the floor. The previous day’s clothes were still on, stained from sweat and grime, but she didn’t mind. They felt right.
She meandered to the kitchen. Mr. Pawcy twirled around her legs in apology. She petted him mechanically. A set of muddy footprints led across the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. Guess she left a trail.
Unlike Richard.
Her hand clutched around Mr. Pawcy’s scruff and the cat hissed. She forced herself to let go. He sprinted behind the couch and hid.
Richard was guilty, she told her twisting gut. Even if he hadn’t kidnapped her specifically. She’d heard the monster in his voice, found his next target, almost fell victim to his gun.
So why wasn’t she leaping for joy?
She opened the freezer. Nothing inside jumped out at her. So instead, she started chopping some peppers and onions.
The way she felt had nothing to do with last night. Nothing. This was exhaustion from days of work without rest. Richard deserved his fate.
But someone else deserved it too. Yes, that must be it. She’d bagged a monster but missed her own. So her psyche punished her with insomnia.
All right. Richard’s jaw lacked a scar. So if he hadn’t kidnapped her, who did?
As her omelet sizzled, she played through scenarios. Assuming Komarov ordered the hit, maybe Richard had acted as a courier to someone outside the motel she hadn’t known was there. It made sense: hide some extra muscle nearby in case a rival learned about the interview.
But how could she verify any of that? She couldn’t exactly walk up to Komarov and ask.
The spatula screeched against the pan. Komarov. He had seen her two nights ago. Had marched right up to her and asked the time of day. How soon before he figured out she was connected to Richard’s disappearance? Were men on their way now?
Something clicked in the outside hall. She paused, listening. The rational part of her knew it was the A/C turning back on through the old vents. However, that part was not in charge.
The part in charge knew a man like Komarov wouldn’t have to connect her to the disappearance. Men like him rarely needed evidence. That click sounded an awful lot like the safety on a gun being turned off.
She tiptoed to the front door. Gods, the bolts were undone! How long were they like this? She quickly relocked them and peered out, ears perked for the slightest creak.
The hallway through the peephole seemed to stretch on forever. Empty. She smelled a faint burning. But no smoke appeared in the hallway. Maybe it was downstairs. Komarov’s men must have set a fire to smoke her out; she’d run out of here and BAM!—lights out.
Her smoke alarm blared. “Shit!” She rushed back to the kitchen to find the eggs black and smoking. Quickly, she dumped the whole mess into the sink and ran water over it. The black tarry remains of her breakfast hissed under the sink’s spray.
She sighed. The wrong thinking had put her here. Bad thoughts crowding out her training, her expertise. Going slow, she prepared a bagel. The slow spread of the cream cheese under the knife calmed the excitement. That done, she could replay her options in her mind without fuss.
Hiding was out. She had no one she wanted to risk. Killing another guard might work, but then they’d be on to her. And none of her former subjects were quite as terrible as Richard’s ilk.
Frustrated, she said aloud, “Well, I guess I could…kill Komarov.”
She chuckled. Kill Komarov, sure. Find one of his dozen safehouses, get past an army equipped with more weapons than both Gods, and take down the man with a giant pectoral for a torso. Komarov’s neck alone could probably lift her entire body. Could Diavolo’s teeth even break through something like that?
She laughed, cream cheese dribbling down her chin as she pictured the image. Like a dog trying to chew through an insulated pipe. Ha! YouTube would flip.
Tears ran down her face, she laughed so hard. Man, she was tired.
But as she bit into her crunchy bagel, she had to admit, Komarov’s death would sure make things easier. With him and that other guard of his gone, no one could connect her to Richard. She would save hundreds. The police might be suspicious, but more likely they’d conclude everyone connected to her interview was being targeted. She might even earn some protective custody.
Her phone rested next to her plate. She half expected an ironically timed call from her mother, but the screen remained dark. She opened it, stared for a moment, then scrolled through her contacts.
For research purposes, she told herself, as she dialed the first one. Simply research.
***
One hour-long shower, an attempted cat nap, and two whipped cream smothered waffles later, Grace nestled into a booth at McIntyre's, tucked away in a corner on the side of the entrance. McIntyre's was upscale enough that people actually came to eat the food and listen to the live music, which wasn't just the closest white man with an acoustic guitar.
Grace nursed a locally brewed ale and tried to look bored. The ale was a habit. When she came to this town over a decade ago, she had to wear the bartenders down. A customer working instead of hooking up lowered morale and drained tips. So Grace stuck to the corners, ordered something expensive, then tipped heavy. Soon enough, she became part of the scenery.
She took a small break from a crossword to rate the beer on her phone. She hesitated, her finger shaking before hitting submit. A small ding notified her she'd earned her tenth drink medal; she’d only registered one before her abduction. The post went public to anyone using the app nearby.
“Grace?”
Looking up from her screen, Grace met an impossibility: “Tracy.”
Her colleague held a glass between both hands, like she was afraid the beer would jerk out of her grasp. “How have you been?”
“Uh, fine.” Grace looked around. A few at the bar glanced in her direction. None lingered for more than a few seconds.
Tracy gestured at the booth opposite Grace. “May I?”
“Um.” A man at the bar glanced back her way. She needed to hurry.
“Please.”
Desperation leaked into her tone and caused Grace to falter, causing her head to fall in a nod.
“Thanks,” Tracy said, sliding into the booth. Her voice dropped as she said, “I’m not equipped for this, Grace.”
“For what?”
“I’ve been…filling in for you.”
“Oh.”
“It’s…hard. I tried being objective, tried focusing on the good I was doing, on the families. But it’s too much. And I know you said writing is amazing, but honestly, it freaking sucks.”
Grace held back a chuckle. Tracy looked so beaten down, Grace wanted to reach out a hand to grasp hers. “Did you tell all this to Perry?”
Tracy groaned. “He’s useless. ‘Short staffed,’ and ‘You got no seniority.’ It’s bull. I think he’s just mad you wrote my name in that byline.”
The byline. Grace blushed. That’s why Perry had yelled at Tracy.
“But I thought,” Tracy said, “you hold some sway. That’s why I texted so much. I’m sorry about that. By the way.”
Grace crossed her arms. Of course that was why Tracy texted. “Perry rarely listens to me.” The man at the bar walked out the back way, toward the bathrooms. And the far exit. “Anyway, I can’t do this right now.”
“Oh, God, I just walked right over here, didn’t I?” Tracy glanced around. “I didn’t even ask how you are or what you’ve been up to.”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just I have a, um…” What could Grace say? “A date.”
Tracy reeled as if slapped. “Oh. Let me…know how it goes.” She slinked out the front door, half empty pint glass clutched to her chest.
Shit. What was she thinking? Should Grace follow? She turned back toward the bar. The man hadn’t returned. She punched her thigh, cursing at herself in English, French, and Spanish. This mistake was worse than any one language could contain.
She cycled through what few swears she remembered from that spring she dated a Russian varsity player when a firm thud made her look up. A different man than the one at the bar had set his glass down on her table. She hadn’t noticed him before. Somewhat attractive, in a wrinkled kind of way. The graying hair at the temples helped.
"Buy you another round?" he asked.
"No, thanks.” She turned her phone so he could see the screen and her username, distracting him while she straightened up. “It's only two out of five shot glasses for me."
"I would have expected more. A cultured one like you."
"Culture is all about perspective." She slid her laptop over an inch, letting the corner of the envelope that was underneath poke out.
The man's stance shifted and she felt a paper bag against her shin. "And I thought it was all theater and tights."
"That's toxic masculinity for you." She angled her laptop away from the man, leaving the envelope bare.
"Ah. Another empowered liberal broad."
The man turned to leave, the exchange complete. She resisted doing a little dance, instead vying for a victory sip. That was surprisingly easy. Almost a good thing that Tracy didn’t—
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”
She started. Tracy and the man had bumped into each other. Spoiled beer soaked the man’s shirt front, rage clear on his face. The scene froze before Grace, a snapshot of where everything went south. She felt weak.
The man looked at Tracy, then at her. The payment envelope was aloft in his hand, gripped in a squeezed fist. “No problem, ma’am. Happens to the best.”
Tracy grinned and nodded a few too many times. The man grinned through gritted teeth and made his way toward the bar.
“Where do you get off?” Tracy leaned over the table and stuck a finger in Grace’s face.
The paper bag at her feet burned a hole in her pant leg. "W-what?”
Tracy slammed down an empty glass. “Sorry, I don't hold my liquor well. But no, I’m mad. I know you were hurt, and I gave you space after…what happened, and you date someone else? What, did I come on too strong? Not strong enough? What?”
“I…”
The bar went silent. Only a couple turned her way, but she knew every patron here was listening.
Fire stoked inside her, a heat that she wanted to let roar. But her contact remained, just out of sight in the dark of the back exit. Waiting. If she played this wrong, this situation may get her and Tracy killed.
“I’m sorry!” She hadn’t meant to shout. More swiveled her way but she didn't shrink back. A few embers from the smoldering rage pushed her on. “I’m not good at relationship…stuff. My usual go to when something bad happens is to hide away. I’m sorry I lied. I…wanted to be alone.”
This was so close to the truth, Grace’s cheeks burned from the embarrassment. Tracy stood there, glaring, probably thinking the worst. This must be what ants feel like under a magnifying glass as the sun beam closes in.
Grace closed her laptop. “I should go—”
“You are skittish.” Tracy giggled. “Sorry, standing here like a deer in headlights. I was trying to wrap my head around how humiliating this is. Didn’t think I could feel embarrassed when drunk.” She rubbed her eyes with the palms. She slunk into the booth. “Let me try this again. I'm sorry. I hope you’re better soon. Shoot me a text when you’re up for it. Doesn’t have to be a date. We could chat about smart people topics.”
Grace grinned. Gods, was she falling for this? “…smart people topics?”
Tracy peeked out from behind her open hands. “Yeah, like red wines and fancy cheese. You know, Kobe cheese. Or the opposite: live text garbage television. Whatever you want.”
“This is what dating people do?”
“Only the good ones.”
Tickled pink, Grace agreed to contact her soon.
“After while, crocodile.”
Grace grinned. What a nerd. “See you later, alligator.”
Tracy departed, Grace following a few moments later, once she could hold the paper bag without wanting to leap into the air.
***
Inside her locked car, she tore into the paper bag. The sleek, black surface of the tranquilizer gun absorbed the dulled light of the cloudy day. The barrel and trigger were wide, the grip a hollow shell. Not much weight to it, honestly.
All in all, it was pretty…disappointing. The whole gun had a plastic feel to it. She expected more Colt .45, less Red Rider BB Gun.
She tossed the expensive toy onto the passenger seat, too flustered to even put it back in its bag, and drove home. She had another contact. Maybe she could get a second opinion after she stashed this–wonderful, more time down the drain. If the gun wasn’t such a necessity—she could not risk unconsciousness again—she would forget the whole thing.
Too bad other knock out drugs had one key downside: range. With her targets’ hand-to-hand experience and strength, the risk of close contact was too great.
On the elevator ride up to her apartment, her stomach rumbled as she stuffed the gun back into its bag. A sudden craving for greasy breakfast foods high in fat and deliciousness struck. Fluffy pecan waffles drenched in maple syrup with a side of crispy bacon. But sadly, reality never lived up to her dreams.
The elevator lurched to a halt and she wiped drool from her bottom lip. Maybe a quick meal and a cat nap was in order before she called the next dealer.
When the doors slid open, she froze. A grim faced but well-manicured man waited at the door to her apartment. He pulled back his suit coat to reveal the badge at his waist.
“Miss Blackwell,” Detective Eugene Yukawa said, “do you have a moment?”
15
She dug her fingers into the tranquilizer bag, knuckles turning white as Yukawa followed her movements.
Say something, Grace thought. Your mouth has been hanging open for like ten minutes. Say something!
She forced a smile. "Detective,” was all she managed.
His eyebrow rose.
Too big a smile, you look like the Joker. Dial it down.
"Call me Eugene,” he said. “Sorry about the delay in following up. New cases take precedence. Especially since your case has been downgraded from missing persons. Are you all right?"
Lie. “Just fine. Except I have cramps and…the shits.”
Wow.
Eugene looked at his shoes. “Uh, sorry to hear that…”
“Y-yeah.” She looked at her hands. "My case is now a kidnapping, right? I assume you called the FBI?" Stupid. Why did she ask that? Now he’d bring more investigators in, if he hadn’t already. She focused on digging her keys out before she said anything worse.
When he didn’t respond, she glanced over. Eugene mirrored her, fumbling through his suit jacket until he pulled out a notepad and pen. "O-of course. This was more of a…social visit. Uh, extending any local services you might feel warranted. And a few questions to close out my report."
“Oh.” He hadn’t called anyone. This was good. Time to up the charm. “Would you like some tea?”
"That would be great." He sighed and smiled, a pleasant, Hollywood type knockout of a smile. If she was into that.
She led him inside to the kitchen. Mr. Pawcy was nowhere to be seen, probably hiding under her bed, terrified of the new person. Lucky jerk.
“Caffeine or herbal?” She set the bag containing the gun on the counter like it was nothing. Some peaches she’d picked up. Now if she could grab the tea cupboard door without her fingers spasming.
He leaned against the counter, hip inches from the gun.
“Never mind,” she said loudly. “You’re probably still up from the vamp beat. Gosh, detective, I wish I had your big, strong energy.” Oh Gods. What the crap was that? Her experience of straight people flirting came from Hallmark movies and bad sitcoms.
“Uh…huh,” he said and glanced away, swallowing.
Wait. Had that worked? Damn, straight women had it easy.
“Can you start with any details of your assailant?"
Her lip trembled. “I already told those other c–”
“This will be the last time. I promise.” His eyes were steady, sure.
She turned toward the cupboard and its relaxing blend of scents. A deep breath, two. He probably thought she was gathering her strength to relive that night. The truth wasn’t too far from that.
