Viper Moon (4 page)

I had my hand on the door handle when a tank of an SUV rolled up and stopped behind my car, blocking me in. If I’d been more alert, I’d have raced away before the SUV’s tires stopped turning. Two muscle-bound steroid junkies jumped out and grabbed me by the arms.

“Come on,” the one on my right snarled. He jerked me toward the SUV. The behemoth’s dark-tinted windows revealed nothing inside. I jerked back and opened my mouth to yell and a thick, leather-gloved hand clamped over it. I’m strong, very strong, but I was way outmuscled on this one. It took only seconds for them to push, drag, and lift me into the SUV’s backseat, in spite of my flailing legs. The one with the glove released my mouth.

“You can scream now,” he said cordially.

“No, she can’t,” snapped the driver.

The guy riding shotgun turned and grinned at me. The two brutes sitting on either side of me released my arms. Things were looking up.

“You stop this thing and let me out. Now!” I made a useless demand. They didn’t reply. The SUV headed up Northwest Sixty-second Street, toward uptown Duivel.

I launched myself forward between the front bucket seats and grabbed the steering wheel. The shift lever jabbed into my stomach, but I held on tight and let my body’s weight tear the wheel from the driver’s hands. Better to wreck the car than go with these goons. The SUV lurched and tires squealed. The guy riding shotgun grabbed my wrists, tried to tear me loose, but I had a good grip. Then one of the assholes in the back leaned over me and grabbed a fistful of my hair. He slammed my face into the console. White light and pain flashed across my nose and cheek where they hit a couple of knobs, so I barely felt anything when they dragged me to the backseat. Something hit my head and everything went away.

I woke up with a sandpaper mouth and a cool rag on my forehead. I choked in a vain attempt to work up saliva. Someone came to my rescue, pressing a water-soaked sponge against my lips. I sucked the water and tried to clear my vision.

My abused head throbbed and protested the infliction of a hangover and blunt trauma, all in one day. My abdomen felt like someone had tried to flatten my stomach against my spine with a hammer.

“Try not to move too fast,” a soft feminine voice said.

My eyes focused and I risked turning my head toward her. A nurse, complete with white uniform and wire-rimmed glasses. She lifted me up, propped pillows behind me, and offered me more water, this time from a glass.

Someone had dressed me in a man’s white dress shirt, presumably because I’d bled on my T-shirt. I rubbed my hands across my aching face. The swelling wasn’t too bad, and my nose wasn’t broken, but they’d bandaged a cut high on my cheekbone. A man stood at the foot of the bed staring at me.

Carlos Dacardi, Duivel’s premier organized-crime boss. Dacardi’s picture graced the
Chronicle
on a regular basis, usually in association with some
Let’s pretend I’m a good-guy philanthropist
fund-raising benefit. His wife, a plain woman who liked designer gowns and sparkling jewelry, always stood beside him. The Duivel mafia wannabe clique stood as bantamweights compared to the big boys in New York and Chicago, but Dacardi was dangerous nonetheless.

Dacardi appeared powerful. Not like the muscled jerks who’d kidnapped me—more like a sturdy, resilient construction worker, with thick, callused hands, ready to pick up a hammer or shovel. He watched me with dark, vigilant eyes.

The nurse handed me a mirror. “The cut’s small,” she said.

I lifted the mirror and surveyed the damage. Red bloodshot eyes sharply contrasted the blue-black halfmoons under them. A swollen lower lip complemented a long, raw scrape on my right jaw. The bandage added an interesting touch. The nurse went through a litany of questions, all designed to ascertain the condition of my brain. Like,
Do you have a concussion?

I lied.

If Dacardi thought I was really injured, he might be tempted to get rid of me permanently rather than deal with someone asking questions about how I got hurt in the first place.

“You want to go to the hospital?” Dacardi asked.

The question carried a reluctant tone.

“No.” I was sure of that. Definitely the right answer. Dacardi nodded and the nurse left the room. I was lying in a real canopy bed, covered with a rose satin bedspread. Sheer white drapes hung from the framework above, and sun from the windows cast an anemic pall on my skin. Pretty, but not a room meant for people to live in. More like a tacky showroom with heavy furniture and ankle-deep pink carpet.

Dacardi walked over and sat on the bed beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to reach out and try to strangle me if he wanted to.

“You know who I am?” Dacardi cocked his head and gave me a cold smile.

“I know. Where am I?”

“Riverside.”

Dacardi’s Riverside house was Duivel legend, the constant subject of rumors of stolen antiques and fabulous treasures fit for a palace.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry you got hurt. Told the boys to bring you—”

“And you didn’t think I’d object?”

Dacardi laughed. “Good thing I sent four of them. Tough bitch, ain’t you? I like that.”

Wonderful. He liked me because his goons hadn’t managed to kill me.

“Okay, Dacardi, what do you want?” I wasn’t completely surprised when he handed me a photograph. An adolescent boy, with his features, but lighter hair and blue eyes.

“My son, Richard. He’s thirteen. He went to the mall. The fucking mall, for Christ’s sake.”

I had to rule out the most likely causes.

“Kidnap? Ransom? Have they contacted you?” Dacardi shook his head. “No. Not that. I got a note. In the mail.” He drew a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. Same handwriting, and virtually the same words as the note Flynn’s sister left. Grown up, going to find a new life.

A vague sense of unease stirred in me. I suppose, to other people, the note would seem like a link, a clue, but to me it signaled convenient coincidence—too convenient. Nothing I do is that easy.

I didn’t ask if he’d called the police. I didn’t ask about neighborhood pals, either. Riverside reeked of luxury and security, where people kept their secrets safe inside high-walled estates; you didn’t go next door and borrow a cup of sugar. Your housekeeper sent
her
servants to the store with money.

“I got the surveillance tapes from the mall,” Dacardi offered. “Paid big money for them. They don’t show nothing.”

Hence the police did not see them when looking for Selene. Dacardi got there first. I doubted that they would show Flynn anything, even if I could persuade Dacardi to turn them over.

“Did you talk to his friends at school?”

“No.” Dacardi’s eyes narrowed like Nefertiti’s. Dacardi grabbed my wrist. “Told them he’s out of the country. With his mother in England.”

“If he ran away—”

“He didn’t run away.” Dacardi’s fingers tightened. I winced and he released me. “Me and that boy were—are—tight. He didn’t tell me everything, but . . . I searched for him, bitch. I screwed this town upside down. You don’t want to know what I did trying to find him. The only thing I got was the name of a woman who could find kids. Your name.”

I closed my eyes.

“Every time I heard your name, I heard the name of the witch you hang out with. Madam Abigail.”

No surprises there. My association with Abby was well known.

“A hundred thousand,” Dacardi said.

“What?” My eyes popped open.

“I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars to find him.”

“Money doesn’t guarantee results.”

“You found others.” Dacardi’s voice had taken on a serrated-knife edge.

“I’ve found kids, Dacardi. But sometimes I can’t find anything at all.”

“You
will
find him.” Dacardi’s eyes and voice went flat and cold. “Or you might find yourself crying over your personal witch’s grave.”

I gave him my sweetest smile. “Okay.”

A suspicious look crossed his face.

Mr. Crime Boss Dacardi’s threats meant nothing to me at that moment, but I’d certainly deal with them later. Abby? I’d like to see him try to hurt her. What a show. She’d tear him apart.

Coincidence or not, the two notes linked Flynn’s sister and Dacardi’s son, and my priorities are all in order when it comes to the kids. That is the great tragedy and joy of my life. But I can’t save them all. At least with twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, if I couldn’t find them, I hoped that they’d hold on to their sense of morality and find a way to escape.

“Dacardi, I look for lost kids. I don’t do it for money.”

“What do you do it for?”

“That’s my business. But I will tell you—warn you. Don’t mess with Abby. Go to New York and spit in the big boss’s eye. It’s safer.”

He balled up his fists, but he didn’t say anything.

“Take me to Richard’s room,” I said. “I need to look around.”

Dacardi didn’t speak for a moment, then stood and offered me his hand. I didn’t want to touch him, but I wasn’t sure I could stand by myself, so I let him steady me. A roaring sound whirred in my ears and the room swayed when I stood, then righted itself. I stifled a whimper. By the time we reached Richard’s room, I could walk on my own.

The kid’s room was three times larger than my apartment. It nested in a tower overlooking the main house and the river. A panoramic view spread from massive windows on the south side. Someone, probably his mother, made an attempt to soften the walls with pale blue paint, but rock band posters tacked on the walls and ceiling successfully negated that.

Dacardi pointed to drums, guitars, and amplifiers sitting in the corner. “Had to move him up here on account of the noise.”

One wall held a TV screen the size of my bed, surrounded by excellent, expensive-looking electronic equipment. “You search the room?” It looked too tidy for a teenage boy.

“Yeah.”

“Why is it so neat and clean?”

Dacardi shrugged. “Maid.”

“Finding Richard depends on information. Clues. You’re going to have to help me out a little. Your son didn’t live in a vacuum.” I pointed at the guitar and drums. “Did he play with someone?”

“He met a couple of boys at a concert. They came here and made noise with him. Didn’t like them. Both a couple of years older. Don’t know their names.”

“Okay, get a couple of your gorillas in here.” I sat on the bed. “They can do my kind of search.”

Dacardi nodded.

“Is anything missing?” I asked.

“No. Don’t think so. I sent his computer to a geek. Nothing.”

“Did the geek know what he was looking for?”

Dacardi’s eyes widened a bit. “I doubt it. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

His men came and they followed my orders, even when I made them leave everything as they found it. They glared at me, but kept one eye on Dacardi. A rough-andtumble, tear-out-the-walls search missed more clues than it found. I’d bet that’s what they did last time—and left the mess for the maid to clean. I made them leaf through each book page by page, pull out all the dresser and chest drawers, and turn over the mattress.

While they finished searching, I scanned the pushpin board. Richard had tacked entertainment ads from four heavy metal nightclubs around town, including the Goblin Den.

“You let him go to these places?” I asked Dacardi.

“No. I kept a close watch on him.”

“You watched? Or one of your . . . employees . . . watched?”

He glared at me.

The search revealed nothing else except a pair of obviously worn Jockey shorts behind a dresser. Dacardi laughed when I made them stuff the shorts in a plastic bag. “What? You got a bloodhound or something?”

“Or something.”

The search revealed nothing new, but at least I wasn’t the one moving furniture.

Dacardi led me downstairs into a room with plush, brown leather furniture and walls of books I’d bet
he’d
never read. “Sit down,” he ordered, and pointed at a chair.

No problem. My head hurt like hell.

Dacardi picked up an envelope from a desk. He slipped out a handful of enlarged photographs and tossed them on my lap.

Shit! I bit my lip hard. Someone had taken them in my apartment last night while I lay in a drunken coma.

“What do you do with those snakes?” Dacardi asked.

“They’re my pets.”

“Yeah. You’re lucky. We could’ve shot ’em. You wouldn’t have known until this morning.”

I tasted blood where I’d bitten my lip. I’d screwed up big-time and placed my friends and myself in danger. But if Nirah, Nefertiti, or Horus sensed danger, why hadn’t they warned me? Once, when a burglar picked my lock and came in, Horus had jumped up and down on my bed. I had grabbed my gun, gone into the living room, turned on the light, and found the would-be thief, frozen, with his tiny flashlight pointed at a coiled and ready-to-strike Nefertiti.

Dacardi went to a small bar and poured a drink. The smell of whiskey nauseated me. He lifted a glass. “You want a Coke or something?”

I shook my head, an action I immediately regretted. I wanted to leave this place.

He sat on the couch and downed the liquor in one gulp. “He’s in the Barrows, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. What makes
you
think he’s there?”

“It’s the only place I can’t get to. Don’t think I didn’t try.” He stared at me. “You, now, you go in the Barrows and you come back with kids. Don’t need to know how, but you tell me why so many disappear down there.”

“No more kids disappear than anywhere else, in any city or town. The Barrows is my territory, though. I’m the one who hunts those streets.”

“Why? You get lost when you were a kid?”

“No. Happy childhood here. Kids don’t belong in the Barrows.” That didn’t answer his question, but it was all he’d get from me.