Game Of Cages (2010) (5 page)

Catherine pulled herself up and peeped into a window. "Empty," she said. "Let's go."

She hurried to the back door. I saw a keypad on the wall and a sign announcing which security company would send a car if the alarm went off. Luckily, Horace had propped the door open with a hand truck.

She went inside and I followed. I didn't like it, but I followed. The oppressive warmth and bright lights made me feel like I'd been captured already.

"This way," Catherine said. She moved the hand truck quietly against the wall.

She led me through a mudroom into the kitchen. We passed a gas grill, a fridge that had a door larger than my bed, and a long stainless steel counter.

"There." Catherine hurried into the pantry and began inspecting aprons hanging from hooks. When she reached a white, double-breasted jacket, she yanked it down and held it against my chest. "Put this on. It'll let you get close enough to these guys to do your mind-control thing."

I stripped off my jacket and gave it to her. "It's not mind control, you know. All it does is make them sorta docile. They get all apologetic if they've been trying to kill me, but that's it."

"What if they're not trying to kill you?" She grabbed a tray off a metal rack and placed a plate on it. "What if you just need information from them?"

"I tried that," I answered. "But only once. I didn't like the results."

I pulled on the white jacket. It was too small; my wrists and shirttails stuck out. She picked up a silver tray, and then we heard footsteps. I slapped the light switch off, and Catherine swung the pantry door until it was just open a crack. She peeked through the opening, and I joined her.

At first we could only see an empty kitchen. We heard a rattling doorknob and a woman cursing under her breath, then she hurried into view. She was at least seventy, hollow-looking, with long, stringy hair. Her nightgown was dingy and speckled with food. It looked like she hadn't bathed in a long time.

Heavier footsteps followed her. She grabbed a ladle and held it in both hands. I didn't think she had the strength to hurt a squirrel, but she looked enthusiastic. "Keep away!" she said. Her voice had an air of lost authority.

Then the man she was warning off stepped into view. He was about thirty-five, with the pouchy face of a hard drinker. He wore sloppy nurse whites and had just enough muscle to push around old women.

"Regina," he said with warning in his voice, "you know better than this."

"You keep away," Regina said, her voice high. "You're fired!"

"Regina, if you come peacefully--"

She swung the ladle, hitting him on the fat part of his shoulder. The blow didn't have enough force to dent a stick of cold butter, but the nurse bared his teeth. "How many times do I have to teach you this lesson?" He snatched the ladle out of her hand and tossed it clattering into the sink. Regina cowered, but he wasn't in a merciful mood. He grabbed her wrist and pinched the skin of her upper arm viciously. Regina's face contorted with pain, her mouth making a silent oh oh oh as she tried to slump away from him toward the floor.

Cold revulsion flooded through me and rekindled a fire that I'd been lacking for months.

Catherine must have sensed something because she held her hand in front of me, trying to keep me in hiding. Unfortunately, I wasn't made for investigating.

I pulled a skillet off a hook, not caring how much sound it made, and stepped forward. Catherine backed away from the door and let me pull it wide. She knew there was nothing to be gained by scuffling with me.

When the nurse noticed me, his smugness turned into astonishment. I charged at him. He shouted "Hey!" An instant later I was on him. He threw his hands up and flinched, but it was all instinct. Instead of swinging the skillet in a wide arc, which probably would have killed him, I jabbed with it, angling it between his elbows. It struck the side of his jaw.

He tumbled backward onto the floor. He was out like a light, and I felt no satisfaction in it.

Regina was still crouched beside the sink. I offered her my hand, and she looked at it as if it might burn her. She stood without my help.

More footsteps came toward us.

I offered her the skillet, and her eyes lit up. She took it gratefully. I put my finger to my lips and slipped back into the pantry.

Catherine had taken up a position behind the door. I left the door open just enough to peek out at Regina.

I heard people rush into the room. Regina raised the skillet over her head. "Don't come any closer!"

"It is all right, ma'am," I heard a woman say. "There is no need to be violent." I liked the careful way she pronounced every word.

Regina glared. "What have you done with Armand?"

"Not a thing, ma'am, I assure you," Well-Spoken Woman answered.

"Madam," a man's voice said. "May I approach this man? I fear he might be dead." He had a Russian accent.

"I hope he is dead." Regina still held the skillet high, but she was getting tired. A hiking boot and a gray pant leg entered my field of vision, but I didn't widen the opening to get a better look. "I hope he's as dead as a ... as a ..." She sighed and let the skillet fall against her shoulder. It was late and she was tired. "He always did things to hurt me."

"I'm sorry for that, ma'am," Well-Spoken said. "And who are you, if I may ask?"

Regina straightened up. "This is my house."

Someone else rushed in with the clicking footsteps of high heels. "Aunt Reggie, what have you done?" another woman asked. She had a high, harried voice and a slight southern drawl.

"I stood up for myself," the old woman said harshly.

"Oh, God, is he dead?"

"No," the man said. "He is unconscious and possibly has a broken jaw. He should be taken to a hospital."

"The two-hour grace period has not yet ended," Well-Spoken said.

A woman stepped into view and took the skillet from Regina without kindness or cruelty. She was nearly thirty, with an orange tanning-booth tan. She wore a green suit with touches of gold at the lapels and cuffs. Something about her put me off. "She's right," she said. She was the one with the drawl. "It'll be another half hour before anyone can leave. We have to give Mr. Yin's truck the head start we promised."

They don't know. They don't know that, just a mile away, the truck was on its side and the predator was on the loose.

The gray pant leg and shoe moved out of my field of vision. "And if he dies?" Mr. Accent asked.

"Then his family will sue us." The niece turned to Regina. "Aunt Reggie, let's get back to your room. Please. I don't have time for this right now."

"What about Armand?" Regina asked as she let herself be led away. "What do all these people have to do with Armand? I want to see him! Why won't you let me see him?"

Her voice receded, and a man I hadn't heard before said something in a language I couldn't identify. His voice was harsh and low.

"There's no need to be rude," Well-Spoken said. "But I agree. The old woman can also identify us to the police."

The harsh voice spoke again. Was it German? The woman answered in the same language.

The Russian man cleared his throat. "I do not like the idea of killing a sick old woman. If it is necessary, of course I will do it, but she is very like my own grandmother. Why would we need to kill anyone? There is nothing illegal here."

The harsh voice answered with a short remark.

"I agree." Well-Spoken was still cool and relaxed. "It is one thing for us to know what was sold here, but the woman could raise an outcry, especially if she regained part of her fortune. I would hate to attract the wrong kind of attention."

The harsh voice again. Well-Spoken answered him: "Perhaps not, but they could harm us."

"We would also prefer not to attract the wrong kind of attention," the Russian said. "But I still do not like the idea of murder."

"Security has been inadequate from the moment we arrived," she said, ignoring the man's comment. "For instance, there is also the problem of Mr. Kripke."

"Yes," the Russian said. "He and the group he represents are not discreet."

The German man spoke. The woman sighed and answered: "I'm afraid I must say the same. Unfortunately, I must leave soon to meet Mr. Yin. Neither of us can linger long enough to take care of him." I wished one of them would step into my line of sight, narrow as it was. I wanted a good look at anyone who talked that casually about murder.

The Russian sighed. "We will do it. No one will find the body. But in exchange, we spare the old woman. This is America--no one will listen to her."

"Acceptable," Well-Spoken said. A pale man in a long scarlet ski jacket arrived. He was as tall and crook-necked as a stork. I figured him for one of Horace's Fellows. He lifted the nurse's legs. Unseen hands helped him carry the man away.

Then a man stepped into my view. He wore heavy canvas pants with a leather jacket. His hair was blond and wispy and his skin pale. He had the face of a man who'd taken a lot of beatings and the expression of one who'd given out even more.

But that wasn't what made me catch my breath. He had tattoos just like mine on his hands, neck, and even his face. I could see that they went up his sleeve, down his collar, and under his hairline. He didn't look like part of--what had Well-Spoken called him?--Yin's crew of pin-striped gunmen. But who was he with? Was he the German voice, working for the "extremely unpleasant old man"? Kripke's bodyguard turned traitor to his boss? Or was he one of the Fellows? I hoped he was part of the Twenty Palace Society. Or even--what had Catherine said?--an ally. I didn't like the look of him and didn't want him as an enemy.

He stared at the pantry door, his expression alert and calm. I knew he wouldn't be able to see me--the room was too dark and the gap too small--but then it occurred to me that I was assuming he had everyday human eyes. If one of those marks gave him X-ray vision or something, I was in for a fight.

Someone's cell began playing Mozart. I heard Well-Spoken answer it in a language I didn't recognize. Some kind of Chinese, maybe? Horace had said Mr. Yin spoke Cantonese, so maybe that was it. After a delay, she said: "My employer wants me to speak with our hostess. If you'll excuse me."

I heard her walk away. The tattooed man walked away too. I waited, listening to the silence. Tattoo hadn't acted as though he'd seen me, but maybe he had a great poker face. Maybe he was going to another room to get a shotgun.

Catherine came toward me, her eyes widened as if to ask Are they gone?

"I guess so," I said. No one heard me. No one shouted Hey again. I opened the pantry door on the empty kitchen.

Catherine slapped my shoulder. It wasn't a playful tap, but it wasn't meant to hurt, either. "Dumbass," she said. She kept her voice low. "You nearly got us killed for that old woman."

"Maybe so."

"Definitely so. I understand the impulse, boy, but bigger things are at stake here."

I didn't like being called boy, and I didn't need to be reminded of the stakes, but there was no edge to be gained squabbling over it.

Catherine wanted me to eavesdrop on Well-Spoken Woman's conversation with the host while she got into position to take photos of the bidders as they left. We agreed to meet in an hour at her car. If one of us didn't make the meeting, we would meet at nine A.M. in the parking lot of the post office in the town below. My flannel jacket didn't go with the white servant's coat, so Catherine promised to bring it to the car.

"Don't get killed" was the last thing she said before she left.

I had no idea where Well-Spoken was going, but I knew how to follow voices. I picked up the silver tray and left the kitchen.

The halls had dark paneling and were hung with landscapes of sunny places thousands of miles away. The floor was hardwood with a strip of burgundy carpet down the center. The carpet had been plush once but had been worn thin down the middle and dotted with faint brown stains.

I walked quietly but not sneakily. I still had the too-small servant's jacket on. It would probably fool anyone who didn't actually live or work here, and I hoped that was good enough. I held the tray in front of me to hide my shirttails.

Well-Spoken Woman and the Russian had talked about attracting the wrong kind of attention, and I knew they were talking about me. They wanted a predator; the Twenty Palace Society kills people who have predators.

And while I'd killed people, I'd always known who I was killing and why they deserved it. I tried to picture myself kicking open the pantry door and shotgunning those strangers, but I couldn't. That wasn't me.

The corridor ended at a T intersection, and as I approached, a small group of people walked by. The man in front was the tall man with the stork neck who'd carried the nurse by the legs. Behind him was a blond woman of about fifty with salon hair and makeup. Two more men walked at the rear. Both were balding, one short and skinny, the other short and fat. Both had big square glasses and porn-star mustaches.

The men were dressed like Horace--they had ugly winter coats and cheap boots. Stork Neck was wearing rubber galoshes, and between the three of them, their haircuts couldn't have cost more than fifteen bucks.

The woman was different. She wore a stylish brown leather coat that reached to mid-thigh. Her boots were also leather and trimmed with fur. In the seconds I had to look at her, she gave the impression of being very carefully put together, very exacting and self-aware. She drew my attention the way the men with her did not.

Was this Well-Spoken Woman? The three men were obviously Fellows, but-—

The woman and the two mustache guys glanced at me. They saw my servant's jacket and looked away. I was invisible. I was help.

When I reached the intersection, I had the choice of turning right and following them or turning left toward the direction they'd come from. To the left was a pair of heavy doors, both shut tight. I didn't know what was behind them. I turned right.

Ahead of me, Stork Neck's party turned left. I hustled after them and peeked around the corner just in time to see them file into a room.