Poisoned Pearls (6 page)

Csaba
looked like a pudgy Greek,
with greasy black hair and olive skin. He licked his lips constantly with his
flabby tongue, as if he was tasting the air or something. His nose was
practically melted into his skin, as if his fat cheeks had muscled in on the
center of his face.

Yeah, there were reasons why he was sometimes referred to as
Jabba
the Hutt, though never to his face.

When I walked over to the couch,
Csaba
looked up with a scowl. “Looking to score?”

“No, I—”

“Then I
ain’t
interested. Get out
of here,”
Csaba
said, waving me away with one of his
ringed hands, his attention firmly focused on the boy being spanked harder now.

“Kyle Magnusson was killed tonight,” I told him.

That at least got
Csaba
to look at
me. “Cops know what happened?”

I shrugged. “It was something weird. Maybe a new drug.”

“So you think they’ll be coming for
Csaba
?
You thought you’d warn me? For what? What do you want?”
Csaba
asked.

I hadn’t, actually, come to warn him. However, it was as
good an excuse as any. “Was Helen of Troy killed recently?” I asked.

“Yeah. Cops were thinking that was some kind of drug, too,”
Csaba
said, casually. Then he sat up straight. “Shit. They
really are coming after me, aren’t they?”

Csaba
stood up and clapped his
hands. The music instantly stopped. The moaning of the woman followed by
another static shot sounded clear through the basement.

“What about a hooker named Lizzie? Over in St. Paul?” I
asked.

“We
gotta
move, people,”
Csaba
announced, ignoring me.

“There was another hooker, named Lizzie—” I said
again, trying to get
Csaba’s
attention.

“I heard you the first time,”
Csaba
said bluntly. “Leave the
soundbox
. And the toys,” he
instructed. Then he turned to me. “Hadn’t heard of her. Erikson might have,
though. You’ll find him at Red Moon, in northern St. Paul, after midnight most
nights.”

Then
Csaba
firmly turned away from
me. “Davis, grab the truck. Pauline, roust the group upstairs.”

I slipped away before
Csaba
could
decide to give me some type of order, make me help him move him and his party.

Were the police really on their way? Would they blame
someone like him?

Of course they would. He was probably next on their list.
Had he dealt to Kyle? It wouldn’t surprise me. The warehouse district in
downtown Minneapolis was
Csaba’s
neighborhood.

I raced up the stairs as quickly as I could, stepping aside
as Dusty and others came trooping down.

Upstairs, the orgy had already been interrupted. Boys were
shoving their legs into baggy jeans. I didn’t go look for the girl in the room
with the food—the party was on the move, and someone would wake her
enough to bring her along.

The cold bit into me as soon as I stepped outside.
Fuck
. I paused in the porch and slid on
my gloves, zipping up my jacket and pulling it tighter around my neck.

It wasn’t going to help much. Cold like that just burned.

The sky was still inky black, with stars peeping through the
light cast by the streetlights. There wasn’t any noise, now. The snow muffled
my footsteps and the main streets were too far away to hear the traffic. It was
like the cold had killed everything. Some might have found it peaceful—I
found it creepy as fuck.

I walked as quickly as I could back toward Kyle’s car, my
hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets. I needed a cigarette. I needed a good
long nap. Hell, I’d settle for a quick fuck and a rest at that point.

I was so focused on my own steps, and not falling on the ice
and breaking my ass, that I was almost all the way to the car before I realized
I wasn’t alone.

A round-shaped man stood on the sidewalk in front of me. My
stomach fell. This wasn’t good.

“Figured you knew more than you’d say,” came a nasal voice.

Shit
. Ferguson.
The cop. Had he followed me? Had they tracked Kyle’s car?

It didn’t matter. I was well and truly fucked. There was no
way I could make bail if they arrested me.

Hell. They might just decide I’d killed Kyle for his car,
since I’d stolen it right after his death.

“Look, I can explain,” I started. I didn’t see Ferguson roll
his eyes, but I’m sure that’s what he wanted to do. Every criminal probably
told him that kind of line.

A strange wailing sound started up from behind me.

“What the—” was all that Ferguson managed to say
before someone grabbed me from behind, an
ironlike
arm slipping around my waist. I was picked up and thrown over a shoulder. Then
I was bouncing, my stomach hitting rock-hard shoulder, as we moved with speed
along the frozen sidewalk.

“
Let’s go
,” came
the insistent command in my ear.

Not like I really had any choice about the matter. The
thing—person—man?—who had me by the waist wasn’t letting my
feet touch the ground.

I didn’t know humans could move this fast.

Ferguson yelled something behind us. Despite my luck, he
didn’t start shooting.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where are you taking me?” It had
all happened so quickly. I didn’t know if I should start struggling or
screaming or what. The guy was freakishly strong, too. I wasn’t tiny, and he
was acting as if I didn’t weigh anything at all.

“Someplace safe,” the guy growled. “Safer, at any rate.”

I froze solid at that. Was Ferguson dirty? What exactly was
this strange man trying to save me from?

We dove between houses, leaping off a pile of car parts and
sprinting up, over the snow, between two houses, into a garage and out the back
side of it.

Half a block away, a car waited, idling by the curb. It was
black and a beater, like Kyle’s.

Somehow, that made me feel better.

“Go,” the man ordered after he’d opened the door to the
backseat and shoved me in, settling himself next to me.

The car was warm. My face instantly felt like it was on
fire, particularly after the cold and the wind of the night. The car smelled
like week-old
french
fries, moldy seat cushions, and
spilled soft drinks.

“Who are you?” I demanded, turning to the guy sitting next
to me. “And why did you kidnap me?” I figured I should at least get my story
straight. Ferguson might argue that I’d run, but really, I hadn’t had much
choice in the matter. Sure, I could have struggled, but going along with the
crazy person had seemed like a better idea at the time.

“I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you,” the guy said.

He was skinny and pale and dressed in Army fatigues. I
couldn’t really see his face in the dark of the car, but I bet his eyes were
blue and wide and scared. “Hunter?” I queried.

He gave me a quick flash of white teeth. “Yes. And you are
my companion. My true blood brother.”

I caught the eye of the pudgy guy driving in the rear view
mirror. “Only the lucky few get chosen this way,” he told me solemnly.

Shit. I think I would have rather faced the police than two
crazed junkies.

They didn’t take me to some abandoned warehouse, which I
suppose was some sort of luck. Instead, they took me to the pudgy
one’s—Josh’s—apartment.

The neighborhood we drove through still hadn’t woken up,
though it must have been edging on five a.m. at this point. Buses were running,
but everyone else seemed to have hunkered down for the winter. Most of the
windows in the apartment buildings we drove by were dark, as were the small
restaurants and coffee shops.

Then I realized we were close to the University of Minnesota—all
the smart kids had left campus, and the ones who’d stayed weren’t about to
brave the cold if they didn’t have to. Probably a lot of store owners felt the
same, and wouldn’t open up again until classes restarted.

We parked in a large, open-air lot that held only a few
cars, most of them beaters. Either Josh had a fake student ID, or he was making
good enough bucks to pay to park there.

When I slid out of the back seat, Hunter was right behind
me. He grabbed my arm as soon as he stood up.

Was he afraid I was going to run or something? How in the
hell did he think I’d get away from him? He was super strong, and superfast.

By the time we reached the sidewalk, I realized that Hunter
wasn’t afraid that I’d run. He constantly looked over his shoulder, up the
block, down the block, tracking cars and the single insane jogger who passed
us.

The reason he kept his arm on me was because he was also
afraid that something or someone would appear and attack us. By keeping me
close, he could better protect me.

It was pretty fucked up, but it made me feel better.

Josh’s apartment building must have been classy once. It was
done in that fake Tudor style, with broad wooden beams that needed painting and
stucco that now crumbled and came away from the walls in patches. Large signs
were posted outside the glass doors, directing people to stand at least fifteen
feet away from the door if they wanted to smoke. Inside were more warnings
about no smoking inside.

“Dude, are you kidding me?” I asked Josh as we entered. “You
can’t even smoke in your own damned apartment?”

Josh shrugged. “Don’t smoke.”

Jesus.
Healthy
junkies. God save me.

“Look, I haven’t had a smoke in ages,” I told Hunter. I was
dying for a hit. Particularly since the adrenaline had started wearing off, it
was still five in the goddamn morning, and I was going to fall asleep on these
two pretty soon. Didn’t know how the hell I was going to make it through the
next day at work, either.

“Soon,” Hunter promised easily.

I knew he was lying. I also couldn’t get away, and screaming
didn’t seem the ideal thing to do. Not yet. Not until I had a better idea who
and what I was dealing with. Hunter would just find me again, carry me off to
someplace more remote.

He had that whole unstoppable-intense thing going on in his
eyes.

The hallway was at least warm, though it smelled like cat
pee. Dark red carpet hid the worst of the stains. The plaster wall bulged and
sagged in one place—probably a busted water pipe that had never really
been fixed, or that broke every year with the first freeze.

Stairs went up to the next level, with a modern balustrade
that was probably the most up-to-date thing in the entire building. Of course,
that’s not where we went. Instead, we went downstairs.

“Really?” I asked, though no one seemed to want to reply. At
least three of the stairs creaked badly, though the carpet seemed newer. I bet
the wood was rotting underneath, though. This shitty staircase was an accident
waiting to happen.

“Y’all want an inspection for Christmas, don’t you?” I
asked. Neither Josh or Hunter reacted. “Never mind.”

Much to my surprise, Josh’s apartment wasn’t garden level.
The building must have been built on a hill. While the front of the building
was at street level, so was the back, lower level. Just off Josh’s living room
was a set of glass doors leading directly out to the alley.

Just inside the door was a built-in hutch, like for showing
off china or something, even though the building wasn’t that old. “That
original?” I asked Josh, pointing at the hutch. It was painted the same plain
beige as the walls, but I bet it was all wood underneath.

Josh shrugged, obviously having no idea what I was asking
about.

“My dad. He was into architecture,” I said with a shrug. Driving
through neighborhoods and talking about the buildings was something we’d done a
lot of just before he’d been killed.

“A buildings expert,” Hunter said, nodding. “Good.”

I opened my mouth to correct him, then figured, why bother?

I was surprised that Josh insisted we take off our boots in
the front hallway and not track snow through the rest of his place. I was even
more surprised that Hunter acquiesced. He didn’t seem like the type to ever let
down his guard, let alone take off his boots in a stranger’s place.

Then again, maybe he’d already checked it out and had
figured out his ten exits and cubbyholes.

The living room was decorated in typical working-poor chic.
The long couch to the left was probably used and was covered in an ugly floral
bedspread. Blue plastic milk carts, precariously balanced one on top of the
other, made up the end tables. Pizza boxes and a few empty cans of PBR beer
completed the decorations.

Hunter took hold of my arm again. I tensed, but he merely
led me to the couch and let me go.

I settled down uneasily on the lumpy furniture, while Josh
sat in a chair and Hunter stayed standing, pacing.

“So,” I said, when no one started talking. “Someone want to
illuminate me why we’re all meeting here today?”

Hunter stopped pacing. It was weird how he did that, went
from all raw, restless energy that seemed as though it would never stop, to
sudden, total stillness.

“I did not kidnap you,” Hunter reassured me. “You were in
grave danger. The police in this town are too easily corrupted by the
government. I had to get you away. Get you to safety.”

I could tell he totally meant to be reassuring. He had the
body language and the kind eyes down pat.

But there was a disconnect between his words and how he said
them. It was like he didn’t really believe them himself.

“Sure,” I said, nodding. “So when the nice police officer
comes to my apartment and breaks down my door and accuses me of resisting
arrest and running away, what should I tell him?”

“Josh will warn us if any police officers are on their way.
Correct?” Hunter said, his eyes boring into Josh’s.

Uh oh. Trouble in paradise. Josh still seemed to be fawning
all over Hunter, but Hunter didn’t trust Josh.

Then again, I doubted that Hunter trusted anyone.

“So what did you not kidnap me for?” These two had to want
something. And Hunter had mentioned something about a true blood brother.

“When I was in Afghanistan, the government gave us an
experimental drug. PHS-370. Psychic
enHancement
and
Stimulant. It enhanced my pre-cog abilities,” Hunter said seriously.

Wow. I hadn’t thought Hunter could pull it together enough
to express himself so clearly.

“The drug worked, but it had…side effects,” Hunter said. “I
couldn’t fight the government on my own,” he continued. He sounded eager. “I was
alone. I hadn’t found my blood brother yet.”

Hunter trembled slightly and took a deep breath. He mouthed
some words.

That was when I realized that this was a rehearsed speech
that Hunter had in the can for whenever he met a “blood brother.” He was barely
holding it together.

“Now, together, with your abilities and mine, we’ll be able
to stop the government from experimenting on more of our brothers. Stop them
from wasting more lives. Turn them away—”

“I don’t have any abilities,” I told Hunter.

The silence that spread through the room was deafening.
Shit
. Maybe I should have eased him into
it, or pretended or something.

“What do you mean, you don’t have any abilities?” Hunter
asked, continuing to hold himself completely still, as if he were a statue or
something.

“Zip. Nada. Not a lick. One-hundred-percent mundane,” I
assured him.

“What was your PADT score?” Josh asked. He seemed concerned.

Did he also think I was a blood brother? Had he been with Hunter
in the Army? That didn’t seem right. Josh was much younger and softer.

“I don’t remember,” I lied. I’d actually never taken the
Psychic Ability and Distribution Test. I’d already been thrown out of the house
by the time I was eighteen. Though the testing was free, I’d just never
bothered to get myself to a facility to see.

I already knew I didn’t have any talent.

“The test must have been wrong,” Hunter insisted.

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging and standing up. “Don’t think I’m
your blood brother.”

“No,” Hunter said. “I’ve seen it. And you will, too.”

That made me pause. “I was warned—twice
tonight—about being careful what I see. What if I don’t
want
to see?”

“You must,” Hunter insisted.

“I think the young woman has a choice like everyone about
the type of training she should have,” Josh interrupted.

Hunter looked at Josh, then back at me. He shrugged. “It
doesn’t matter what she chooses. She
will
see. For I have seen it.”

And while I know Hunter meant it as a positive, good thing,
it sure sounded like a curse to me.

***

I couldn’t believe that Hunter and Josh let me walk out of
there after just a bit more fuss.

Maybe it was how I kept emphasizing that the cops were going
to believe I’d been
kidnapped
by the
pair of them.

Or maybe it was because Hunter was so certain in his vision,
in what he’d
seen
, he didn’t need for
me to stick around.

I wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The city was waking up now. Lots of cars on the streets,
people briskly walking by. The sky was clear and blue, the worst kind of winter
weather, because it looked like it would be halfway decent out but it was still
cold as fuck.

I didn’t have to wait too long for a bus to come. All the
passengers sat like mummified
bobbleheads
in their
seats, nodding as the bus went along. No one talked. The windows were fogged
with their hot breath anyway, making the bus seem like a cave hurtling down the
street.

I got off at Five Corners, changing buses to head back
downtown, to my place.

Sure, the cops might be there. They could haul me in and try
to question me as well. But I’d been up for twenty hours at that point. I
needed to crash, and crash hard.

Besides, it would be more of a pain if they waited to visit
me until I worked my next shift at Chinaman Joe’s later this afternoon.

Still, I walked slowly up the street toward my apartment
block. No sense in making it too easy for anyone waiting for me by blithely
walking along. But there weren’t any cop cars parked in the street. No one
would be waiting outside to snitch on me—it was too fucking cold.

After my mom had kicked me out, I’d lived on the streets for
a while. It had been October and almost pretty with the red and orange leaves
swirling everywhere. I’d never gotten too into the heavy shit—meth
freaked me out. And needles were never my thing.

Speed, though, made all the corners sharp and gave halos to
the lights. I crashed on my new-found friends’ couches, when they had them, or
in someone’s tent, or curled up on a pad in the doorway of a shop. Nothing
really softened the rage, which fueled me for months.

But then that first real cold snap came. It wasn’t enough to
make me go crawling back to the bitch who’d birthed me. However, I understood
why people would put up with just about anything—the singing and
praise-the-lording—to get out of that kind of weather.

There weren’t many who cared about the people on the street.
Sure, there were services, but they were overloaded trying to get the kids off
the streets, not the hookers and junkies. Not the ones strung out on anything
they could beg, borrow or steal.

To this day, I still don’t remember some of those weeks,
what went on. That luck of mine must have kicked in. I never got hooked on the
hard stuff, just pills and booze.

It was some kind of luck that finally got me off the streets
a year later, away from my gang. Stupid ice patch ended up putting me in the
hospital with a broken wrist. I got dried out there, and decided that being
inside was actually nicer than living outside, particularly in Minnesota,
especially since I was facing another winter out there.

So I got assigned to a case worker who actually kind of gave
a damn and I was able to move into housing, and, as they say, merge back into
society.

The kids I’d left behind said I’d betrayed them. I could kind
of see their point. They had a pretty black-and-white worldview. Either with us
or against us.

It was a coping mechanism, a survival technique. I knew I
still carried some of it. Knew that was why my friends remained so important to
me.

Hell, I even realized it was part of what was driving me
to find out what had actually happened to Kyle.

My current place wasn’t a dump. I’d lived in dumps—or
rather, crashed in them for a while. It hadn’t really been living. But this
place was mine, and mine alone. I didn’t have a roommate. I was able to keep
the place as clean, or as messy, as I wanted.

And after shared housing, believe me, that mattered.

The first thing I did when I walked in the door was empty
the ashtrays. I never let them fill to overflowing. That was my thing. This was
my place. I had nice toilet paper, not that single-ply nasty shit, but stuff
that was soft and expensive feeling. The ashtrays were always clean. And the
garbage never piled up—I threw it out regularly.