Game Of Cages (2010) (14 page)

I looked down at the woven rug. The weave was complex, all twisted around itself and bound tight. I wondered what I would have to know to be able to make a rug like that and how much it paid, because I wasn't as ready for this life as I thought.

And while Annalise had been shockingly ruthless sometimes, she had never allowed a predator to kill anyone.

Catherine stood and straightened her sweater. "Don't be too hard on yourself. You screwed up in a big way, but you didn't know any better and we fixed it. And I wouldn't have survived the night if not for you. Besides, when I said I didn't want to see people killed, I was including you. None of this will be in my full report."

"Don't lie for me," I said.

"Okay then." She took out her cellphone and dialed a number. "Catherine Little, supplemental report," she said. Then she repeated what I'd told her but much simpler and faster than I had. She'd had practice, I guess.

She also told them the floating storm had taken two victims at my instigation because I had an "all enemies" outlook.

She paused to listen to their response. She looked at me and said, "Absolutely not. He just needs someone willing to explain how all this works."

That gave me a chill. I was grateful to her for having this conversation where I could hear.

Catherine explained that she was leaving the site and hung up. She went into the bathroom and returned with a couple of small bottles, which she jammed into her jump bag. "Ready to go?"

"I want that phone number."

She smiled at me. There was a trace of kindness in it. "So many do. If they want you to have it, they'll give it to you."

We went downstairs. Catherine suggested I check out, but I surprised us both when I said I wouldn't. She studied my face for a moment, but nothing needed to be said.

On the street, the air was brisk and damp, and I thought we'd have rain soon. There was no sidewalk and we had no car. We walked along the shoulder of the road, watching for careless drivers and Yukons, BMWs, and Mercedes.

A couple of pickup trucks drove by, and a man with a thick, dreadlocked ponytail pedaled by us in a recumbent bike decorated to look like Santa's sleigh.

Catherine seemed to know where we were going. She led me through an intersection with a four-way stop, then turned left at the next. At that, we'd entered the business district, such as it was.

The first building we passed was a visitor's center, which was closed, then a bagel shop and a general store. After that, we passed a bar, a bank, and a beauty shop, all decorated with tasteful white lights. There was a single sporting goods store behind the beauty shop. I noted the location in case I needed another change of clothes.

A banner strung above the street announced the upcoming Christmas festival.

Just beyond a pizza place, the neighborhood turned residential again. The road twisted and turned up ahead, with a steep hill behind the homes on one side and a long drop behind the homes on the other. Washaway was laid out in the flattish spaces that followed the twists of the ravines and gullies.

We turned the corner and approached an auto mechanic shop. The building was painted nausea green, and the sign above the door was obviously old but kept in meticulous condition. The front door was open despite the time of year. It looked like any other garage I'd ever seen, maybe cleaner.

There was only one person there: a short guy in green overalls working under the hood of a Dodge Aries. I scuffed my feet so he wouldn't be surprised by our approach, and he stood up. He was Asian, and for a stupid moment I thought he was one of Yin's men, waiting to ambush us.

He had a broad, tranquil face that showed the ravages of teen acne. His hair was cut into a buzz, and there was a smear of black grease on his nose. He picked up a rag and began wiping his hands, presumably so we wouldn't offer to shake his hand. "Hey, now," he said, his voice surprisingly deep. "How you folks doin'?"

His name was Hondo, like the movie, not the motorcycle, he said. With the flat, clipped tone of the executive again, Catherine asked if he had cars for rent, and he answered yes. He put his tools away carefully and led us around back, explaining that he did a decent side business renting to folks while he worked on their cars.

There were three to choose from. Catherine went with an Acura again. I nixed a Corolla hatchback and picked a Dodge Neon. I'd have preferred something bulkier, just in case, but those were the choices.

We went into the office, which wasn't as clean as the rest of the garage. We filled out the forms, and he ran my credit card through his little machine to put down a deposit. He told Catherine how to get to the train station and offered to pick up the car there for an extra charge. I bought all the insurance he offered, which made him nervous.

Catherine and I went out front while Hondo brought the cars around. "You should change your mind," she said.

"I can't." A Volvo station wagon puttered down the street. There was a Christmas tree stuffed in the back. "What's an 'all enemies' outlook?"

She looked at me evenly. "All enemies are equal. It's someone who thinks serial killers, business competitors, pedophiles, or abusive fathers-in-law are just as bad as the predators from the Empty Spaces. To the society, there's only one true enemy, along with the humans who summoned them. No feeding the monsters, no matter whose head you put on the platter."

I nodded. She presented so many different faces to so many people, I couldn't help but wonder whether she was acting for me, too. Normally, I wouldn't care--if she acted roles, she had a reason for it. It wasn't up to me to peel back that disguise.

But we'd killed a predator together. We'd been a team. I was grateful to her, but even though she was right beside me, she was still remote. I was afraid that my gratitude wasn't getting through the defenses she kept.

Maybe it was selfish of me and unfair to her, but I wanted a glimpse of the real Catherine Little before she drove out of my life forever, so I said: "How did it feel to kill that predator?"

Her expression softened and became thoughtful. A smile turned up the corner of her mouth.

The Acura arrived. She tossed her bag into the backseat. "See you again sometime, Ray." She was still smiling as she got into the car.

I watched her pull away. Part of me thought I should have gone with her. Neither of us was qualified to face a predator. She was doing the smart thing. A peer was coming, after all. This job was best left to them.

Except I had no idea how long that would take. It was one thing if a bidder captured the sapphire dog and got away. They could be tracked down. But what if none of them captured it?

And really, what did I have to do that was more important than this? Stock shelves at the supermarket?

Hondo gave me the keys to the Neon, and I got behind the wheel. If I was going to run back to the straight life I'd once wanted so badly, now was the time.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't go back to facing cereal boxes while a predator was on the loose. The idea was absurd.

Besides, Annalise might show up at any time.

I pulled out of the lot with no destination in mind. Maybe the sapphire dog would run into the street and under my tires. Maybe I would come up with a real plan. Each possibility seemed as likely as the other.

There was a gunshot from somewhere nearby. I stopped in the middle of the intersection and rolled down my window. There were two more shots. The echo seemed to come from the center of town, so I did a U-turn and drove into the residential area.

There was some other traffic, but I didn't see anything unusual. I didn't hear any more shots.

Then I saw a house with the side door standing open. I parked and got out of the car.

The house was white with black trim. Above the third-floor window, someone had painted a black-and-white checkerboard. The front door was shut and the drapes drawn tight.

I went around the side of the house, my shoes sloshing through the mud. There was no one at the windows. For a moment, I thought I had come to the wrong place. Then I reached the open door and peered in.

It was a kitchen, also done in a black-and-white checkerboard. On the floor, a woman lay stretched out, a pool of bright red blood spreading around her.

I drew my ghost knife and stepped inside. If a phone was handy, I'd call 911 for her, but I didn't think it would do much good. Her belly had been cut wide open.

The kitchen was a mess. Loose mail and newspapers were stacked on the counters, and the table was dusted with crumbs and splotches of purple jelly. I spotted the phone on the wall beside the fridge and started toward it.

"Clara!" someone called from outside. It was an old man's voice. I put my ghost knife into my back pocket. "Clara!" he called again and stepped into the doorway. "Oh my Lord!" He moved toward the body, splashing the toe of one rubber boot in her blood. He had a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. Then he saw me.

"Hands in the air!" he shouted. I complied. "What the hell did you do here, huh? What did you do?" His voice trembled with rage, and I thought he might twitch hard enough to shoot me accidentally.

"Don't pull that trigger." I kept my voice calm. "The police will be here soon if we call 911."

"I already have, smart-ass." He smirked at me fiercely. He straightened his shoulders and brushed back his wispy white hair. He was posing like a hero. "Don't wet your panties. I'll just hold you here until the sheriff comes. Unless you try something stupid. Get me?"

"Got you," I answered. He didn't like my tone. He wanted me afraid, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"Why shoot you when you can get the needle, eh? I hear that's real painful, like burning to death on the inside. A man who murders a woman don't deserve no better than that."

He was a terrible bluffer, and I wasn't spooked. He decided to drop it. We both looked at the woman on the floor. She was wearing a fleece pullover decorated with poinsettias. There was a little Santa pin on her collar.

She also had a white mark on her face, just like the well-ventilated gunman on the Wilbur estate. Because she was on her back, I could see the whole thing; it started near the point of her chin, ran across her lips, up her cheek, and onto her forehead. It was about the width of the pad of my thumb, and it looked very much like a bleach stain on cloth.

I had no idea what it meant, but I was pretty sure it hadn't killed her. If it had, she wouldn't have needed so many stab wounds.

Still, where had it come from? It could have been a birthmark or an old scar, I guessed, although the odds that a woman in a small town in the American Northwest would have the same mark as a hired thug from Hong Kong weren't worth taking seriously.

Then I noticed the revolver in her left hand. It was big, clunky, and black, the sort of gut blaster home owners prefer--no concealment necessary.

There was a china plate on the floor by my foot. A raw porterhouse had been placed on it, but it was untouched.

So, the woman and the gunman were both armed when they were killed. The plate on the floor suggested a dog, and the expensive, untouched steak suggested even more.

My arms were getting tired, but I had no intention of asking permission to put them down. After a few minutes, Steve Cardinal stepped into the doorway. "My God," he said when he saw the body on the floor. "Isabelle! What happened?"

"About time someone got here," the old man said. He sagged, letting his shotgun droop, and slumped into a dining room chair. It hadn't occurred to me that he would be getting tired, too. "I caught the feller. He was still standing over the body. Almost shot him, too."

Cardinal looked down at the body, then at me. "Oh, Preston, he's not the killer. Isabelle has been stabbed, and he doesn't have a drop on him."

"What?"

"Unless you found a spear in his back pocket. But thank you for calling me. One moment." He took out his cell and went outside. It was only a minute before he came back in. "Bill and Sue are on their way." Cardinal looked at me. "You can put your arms down, son. What are you doing here?"

Now he was ready to play the cop. "I heard gunshots and came out this way. I saw the open door and found her on the floor."

Cardinal turned toward Preston and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. He managed a smile, but it was strained and his face looked pale. They were two old men trying to find the strength to do an unpleasant job. "Preston, I need to ask you a favor. Go out to the street and look for the ambulance. If Stookie is driving, we'll have to send up a flare to get him to the right address."

Preston took a little white pill from a pill bottle and put it under his tongue. "I can do that." He shuffled out the door.

Before Cardinal could start questioning me again, I asked: "She doesn't live here, does she?"

Cardinal put his hand in his pocket. "Now, how did you know that?"

"When Preston came in, he was calling 'Clara,' not 'Isabelle.' She lives nearby, though? Lived, I mean."

"I'm the one with questions that need answering, son. Having you pass the Breakley place just as it burned down--and that's the only way you could have gotten into town from the estate--was quite a coincidence. This is too much."

"You know something of my history, don't you?"

"I can Google," he said. "I know about the arrest in Los Angeles and the time you served. I know about the incident in Seattle last year, although some of the details don't make much sense. Drugs, wasn't it? Some kind of designer drug made a friend of yours go on a killing spree."

He wasn't even close to right, except about the killing spree. I felt a flush of shame at the memory, though. Not only had Jon killed people, he'd eaten them, too. I was grateful Cardinal hadn't mentioned that, because if he'd read news reports on the story, he knew about it.

Still, "drug-induced psychosis" was the official explanation for the events of the previous fall when I tried to save my oldest friend from the Twenty Palace Society--and from himself--and ended up killing him instead. But that official explanation could be useful.