Текст книги "Known Devil"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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“I find it difficult to believe that Wilson could be in the area without any of our people even catching so much as a glimpse of him.”

“Somebody with Wilson’s money can buy a lot of concealment,” I said. “Besides, you had no reason to look for him – until now.”

“Alright,” Loquasto said. “I’ll have all our people start beating the bushes. If Wilson is in the area, they’ll locate him. I hope you’re not also expecting us to… deal with him for you.”

“No, just tell me where he is – I’ll take it from there.”

“Very well. So, you want an address for Mister Wilson. What else is that file of yours going to cost us?”

I hesitated. What I’d done in the past twenty minutes or so had probably broken about six different laws, but what I was about to say now was really over the line.

“You ever hear of Dimitri Kaspar?” I asked him.

Loquasto thought for a moment. “Local vampire, isn’t he? Not affiliated with the Family. Fancies himself some kind of politician, I understand.”

“That’s the guy. He’s also Patton Wilson’s candidate for the office of Supefather.”

“For what?”

“Sorry. That’s the name some of us use for whoever’s the head of the local supernaturals.”

“Like the late Victor Castle, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

He made a face. “Mister Calabrese has never paid much attention to the local power structure, such as it is. The Family makes its own rules.”

“I figured as much. But plenty of others do pay attention, which is why Wilson is bankrolling Kaspar. The guy’s a militant supe-premacist – humans are just walking blood bags, blah, blah, blah. If he becomes head of our supe community, he’s gonna cause just the kind of trouble that Wilson can take advantage of to spread his helter-skelter bullshit.”

“What do you expect us to do about it?”

I took in a deep breath and let it out. No turning back now. “I want you to kill him.”

My car was right where I’d left it – parked in the shadows but with a clear view of the Brass Shield’s front door – and so was my partner. As I slid behind the wheel, Karl turned off the radio. The volume was so low that I couldn’t even tell what he’d been listening to, although it was probably that Pittston station that plays golden oldies.

“Everything go OK?” I asked him.

“Sure, no sweat. I was waiting near that big fucking Caddie that Loquasto drives. When he came out of the bar, I handed him the envelope. He didn’t seem too surprised.”

“No, he was expecting you.”

“I thought for a second that he was gonna pull out his wallet and hand me a tip, but then I guess he remembered where he was. He just gave me a nod, got in his car, and drove off. He’s been gone two, three minutes.”

“Good – and thanks.”

“What kind of mileage you figure he gets in that thing?”

“If you have to ask about the mileage, then you probably can’t afford the car.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want one of them battleships anyway, even if I had the scratch. Too hard to park it.”

“Lots of trunk room, though,” I said.

“I was hoping not to spend any more time inside the trunk of a car – anybody’s car.”

“Good plan.”

“So he went for it, huh?” Karl asked.

“Course he did. Otherwise I’d have called you and said sit tight with the envelope.”

I could have started the engine and driven off then, but I didn’t – maybe because I figured Karl wasn’t finished yet. I was right.

“We’re sailing on what your buddy Sherlock Holmes would call some dark fuckin’ waters, Stan,” he said finally.

“Damn right we are. But if you’ve got any better ideas, you should’ve told me about ’em before I went in there.”

Karl turned his head away slowly to stare out the window at the night. I wondered what he saw out there with his vampire sight that I was missing. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to make him happy.

“No, I didn’t have a better idea before,” he said, “and I still don’t. Sometimes, all the choices you have in life just fucking suck. You ever think that?”

“More times than I can count,” I said. “But I also try to remember something else.”

“What?”

“The choices may all suck, but that doesn’t mean some aren’t worse than others.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” Karl reached for the strap and buckled his safety belt. A trip through the windshield at high speed probably wouldn’t do him serious harm, but the law’s the law.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked.

I turned the ignition key, then put the Toyota into gear. It was time to report for work. “Now we wait.”

So we waited – for four days. I tried not to think about the fact that Loquasto was under no real pressure to fulfill his part of the bargain. He could just take our information and do nothing in return – what were we gonna do? Sue him?

I’d say that the suspense was unbearable, but Karl and I were too busy most of the time to think about it. All the cops on the Occult Crimes Unit had our hands full.

It didn’t help that we had the full moon during that time, which naturally resulted in increased lycanthropic activity. Werewolves aren’t more prone to criminal behavior than any other species – including humans – but those with violent tendencies seem to find encouragement each month in that round, glowing disc overhead. Of course, the Patriot Party was quick to point that out, as “proof” that supernaturals were inherently antisocial and needed to be controlled. They didn’t have the nerve just yet to use the word they really meant – eliminated – but I figured that was only a matter of time, especially if that bunch of nuts won the upcoming election.

A couple of ogres in a downtown bar got into a fight over a female of the species. No humans were hurt but the property damage was substantial. Ogres are hard to subdue, so one of the responding cops called in the Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit. But by the time SWAT got there, the female had left in disgust, and the two male ogres, realizing there wasn’t anything to fight about, were sitting at what was left of the bar, having a beer. I hear they went to County Jail quietly, although neither of them made bail.

There was an ugly situation involving a golem on Monday night. A member of Temple Beth Israel’s congregation got the idea that Rabbi Jacobson was messing around with his wife. That turned out to be bullshit, but it didn’t stop the guy from hiring a Kabbalistic wizard to get even in the traditional fashion. The golem had chased Rabbi Jacobson all over the inside of the temple and almost had him cornered when Karl and I showed up – SWAT was busy across town, where a bunch of Slide-addicted dwarves had tried to take down the all-night branch of Citizens Savings, but a teller had tripped the silent alarm before the little bastards had a chance to get clear.

The golem was at least eight feet tall, and single-minded in its purpose of pounding the rabbi into porridge. Nothing you can shoot a golem with makes a damn bit of difference, but I’d encountered one before and knew what to do. The thing is animated by a piece of paper in its mouth on which the wizard has written a shem – any one of the several Hebrew names for God. Remove the paper, you deactivate the golem. Of course, the thing is programmed to resist any attempts to grab the paper, and I’d have been crushed by its giant arms if I’d gotten close enough to try. Fortunately, my partner has vampire speed. Once I’d explained what needed to be done, Karl had the shem out if its mouth so fast, the golem didn’t even have time to react before it crumbled into the big pile of mud that had been its original form. Rabbi Jacobson thanked us warmly for the great mitzvah we’d done him, but Karl and I said we’d just been doing our jobs. When we left, he was looking through the phone book for carpet cleaners who were open late.

When we got back to our car, there was a number ten envelope stuck under one of the wiper blades. I opened it and saw that Louis Loquasto had come through for us after all.

The message had been printed by a computer. It didn’t waste words on social niceties, which was OK with me.

Resident of former Callaway home on Lake Scranton appears to be PW. Unable to determine with certainty, as grounds and house well-guarded, but this itself lends credibility. Other matters are well in hand, with positive results expected shortly.

It was signed – if that’s the right word – with a simple “L”.

“Huh,” Karl said when he’d read it. “I guess ‘other matters’ means those two guys he’s gonna hit, old man Delatasso and Dimitri what’s-his-name.”

“Kaspar.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Kaspar’s a vampire, Karl.”

“Yeah, you already told me. So?”

“So, I was wondering if you’ve got any kind of problem with him being taken off the board,” I said.

Karl gave me a half-smile. “‘Taken off the board.’ Jeez, Stan, you’re starting to talk like a Mafia boss yourself.”

“You know what I mean, and don’t change the subject,” I said. “Kaspar’s a vampire, and I asked Loquasto to have him killed. You’re a vampire, so I was wondering if it bothers you.”

“I’m a cop, too,” he said. “And I was a cop before I became a vamp.”

“I know that,” I said. Who would know better? Christine had brought Karl over because I’d asked her to. It was either that or watch Karl die from injuries he’d received while helping me catch a killer.

“You were with Homicide before Occult Crimes,” Karl said. “And a street cop before that. Right?”

“Yeah. Six years in uniform before I got my gold shield. So?”

“You ever kill any humans in the line of duty?”

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” I said.

“Well, did you?”

“Yeah – two as a street cop, and one while I was a Homicide dick.”

Karl nodded. “Did it bother you?”

“Yeah. Some.”

“Because you killed them – or because they were human?”

A few seconds went by. “I guess I’d probably say that you proved your point.”

“Then how about you not ask me any more stupid-ass questions. Deal?”

“Deal. What do you say we go back to the station and see what we can find out about this Callaway place?”

“That’s the second-best idea you’ve had tonight,” Karl said.

“What was number one?”

“Letting me handle the fucking golem. Now I don’t have to explain to Christine how you got yourself killed by an eight-foot pile of mud.”

Lake Scranton. The house just had to be on Lake Scranton. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really – there are lots of ritzy homes out that way, and I wouldn’t expect Patton Wilson to hole up in a shack.

But some very bad shit had gone down a couple of years ago, in the pump house that controls the lake level – despite its name, Lake Scranton is a reservoir, not something made by nature. A number of people had died in the pump house that night, none of them pleasantly. Several others had come damn close to dying – including Christine, Karl, and me.

But the Callaway estate was almost a mile from the pump house, and I decided that I’d better stop thinking about old tragedies and start focusing on how to avoid a new one.

There was a lot of information about the place available online, including six photos showing the house, inside and out. The realty company had left the listing up, even though the word “SOLD” in red letters was prominently displayed on the page. I wondered why they’d even bothered.

The house was something called a Heritage Log Home, but it wasn’t anything Daniel Boone would recognize. Instead, it looked like the kind of lodge you’d find at a ritzy ski resort. According to the Realtor, the house sat in the middle of a two-acre lot, about a quarter mile from the intersection of Lake Scranton Road and Watres Drive. Four beds, three baths, four-car garage around back, surrounded by woods on three sides. The Callaway family had sold it last year for $460,000 to something called “V. H. Property Development.” Four hundred sixty grand may not buy you much house, say, on Long Island. But in Scranton, it’ll get you a mini-mansion, like the one Karl and I were looking at.

I googled “V. H. Property Development” and found exactly zip. Whatever properties they were developing apparently weren’t available on the public market. Then something occurred to me.

“I bet I know what the ‘V. H.’ stands for,” I said to Karl.

“What?”

“Van Helsing.”

Karl snorted. “You’re probably right. That sounds like something that would appeal to our buddy Patton.”

We studied the property photos. “Check this out,” Karl said. He picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. “A two-level veranda that goes all around the house. Three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Put people on each of the four sides, and it’s gonna be pretty hard to sneak up on that place.”

“Except at night, maybe.”

“Sure,” Karl said. “Unless the guys on the deck have night-vision equipment. Or they’ve got motion sensors on the grounds, or maybe body heat detectors. Motherfucker bought the place eleven months ago – think he might’ve installed stuff like that?”

“Who – paranoid millionaire Patton Wilson, who’s got more arrest warrants out on him than John Dillinger ever had?”

“That’s the guy.”

“In a fucking heartbeat,” I said. Staring at the photos on the screen, I said, “Still, some reconnaissance might not be a bad idea. Get an idea of what we’re up against – if we can do it without getting caught.”

“We can’t, probably,” Karl said. “But I can.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a vamp thing – you wouldn’t understand.”

I sat in the police-issue Plymouth, parked in some brush just off Watres Drive with the windows cracked a couple of inches each, and listened to the night. There wasn’t a lot to hear, since all the insect life was already in hibernation, and whatever birds were still around this late in the season apparently went to bed early. What I was really listening for was Karl returning to the car.

I should have known better. One second there was utter silence, and the next Karl was opening the passenger door and getting in. “Drive,” he said while fastening his seat belt. “No point in hanging around here any longer than absolutely necessary. I don’t think they have patrols out, but I could be wrong.”

There’s nobody better than a vampire when it comes to sneaking around in the dark, a point Karl had made when explaining why he should recon the house alone.

“I can see in the dark, and you can’t,” he’d said. “I can move a lot faster and quieter than you, and even turn into a bat, if I have to. And if they shoot at me with anything but silver, they’re shit out of luck.”

“And what if they do use silver?” I’d asked him.

“Then I’m the one who’s shit out of luck.”

I slowly turned onto Watres Drive, then took a right, heading us back to the city. I drove without lights for the first half-mile or so, to avoid drawing attention to the car. It wasn’t as dangerous as it sounds – my eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and the almost-full moon gave enough light to see where I was going.

Still, I gave the road my full attention until it seemed safe to flick on the headlights. I blinked against the glare a couple of times, then asked Karl, “So, how’d it go?”

“Good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that they didn’t shoot me.”

“I’d already figured out that part, kemosabe,” I said. “Not that I’m not relieved.”

“Yeah, well, the bad news is that they’re in good shape to shoot the livin’ hell out of anything else. I counted six sentries – four stationary and two rovers, all with automatic weapons.”

“Sweet Christ.”

“Two of the stationary guys are on the verandas with night scopes. Oh, and they all wear these little radios with headsets, so they can talk to each other. It looks like the same rig SWAT uses.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said.

“If we’re gonna go in there and get out alive, we’re gonna need some help. I’d recommend a couple platoons of Navy SEALs.”

“When we get back to the squad, we better have a talk with McGuire.”

“About what?”

“Getting some help.”

McGuire sat behind his desk, looking like his ulcer might be kicking up again. Funny how he often had that expression when talking to Karl and me.

We’d been talking for about fifteen minutes when he said, “Let me be sure I have this right. You want me to ask the Chief to authorize a full-out raid on this place – this heavily guarded place – near Lake Scranton because you think Patton Wilson is in there.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“And your only source for this information is the consigliere of the Calabrese family, what’s-his-name, Loquasto.”

“Right,” I said.

“And Loquasto provided you with this valuable intelligence because…?”

I hated to lie to McGuire. He’s a good boss, and he’s supported Karl and me at times when others were calling for our heads. But there was a limit to what he’d put up with, and I was pretty sure that one of his detectives engaging in conspiracy to commit murder was outside that limit.

“It’s in his best interest,” I said. “He believes, just like we do, that Wilson is behind the Delatassos’ attempt to take over the Calabrese territory. If Wilson’s out of the picture, Loquasto figures that Ronnie Delatasso will take his ball and go home. Eventually.”

“It makes sense, boss, when you think about it,” Karl said.

McGuire looked at Karl, then back at me. “So why don’t the Calabreses just go after Wilson themselves?”

“It would take a pitched battle for them to overcome all the firepower that Wilson’s got protecting him,” I said. “Loquasto didn’t come right out and admit it, but I’m pretty sure Calabrese hasn’t got the troops to do the job. He’s been hurt pretty bad in the war with the Delatassos.”

“So he wants us to do his dirty work for him.” Judging by his face, McGuire’s ulcer had taken a turn for the worse.

“It’s a win-win, haina?” Karl said. “We want Wilson bad as Calabrese does – maybe more. And if we can take him out of play before the election–”

“Which is eight days away,” McGuire said.

“Which is eight fuckin’ days away,” Karl said, nodding, “it could make all the difference in the world.”

“Or none at all,” McGuire said sourly.

“We won’t know for sure unless we can pull it off,” I said. “But one thing’s for sure, boss – if we don’t do something, and quick, Wilson’s gonna own this town, starting nine days from now. I don’t wanna see that – do you?”

“You know I don’t.” McGuire ran a hand slowly through his thinning hair. “But there’s a problem – make that two problems.”

Karl and I looked at each other, but didn’t say anything.

“For what it’s worth, I believe you,” McGuire said. “I think Wilson’s hiding in that big house on Lake Scranton. Shit, who else around here could afford that kind of security – and who else would need it?”

“Then what’s–” Karl began, but McGuire waved him silent.

“But asking the Chief to send twenty, thirty cops out there, including SWAT, based solely on the unsubstantiated word of a known criminal… I just don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

“It’s still worth a try, dammit,” I said. “If he says no, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

McGuire’s expression had turned bitter. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, like I said, there’s another problem.”

McGuire moved around a couple of objects on his desk that didn’t need moving, and that’s when I felt icy fingers touch my spine. The boss doesn’t usually hesitate to say what’s on his mind – about anything.

“I’ve been hearing things, the last couple of weeks,” he said. “Nothing definitive – it’s what you’d have to call circumstantial evidence, but it still bothers me. Some people that the Chief’s been seen having lunch with, a few things he’s said at meetings, the fact that he’s talking about retiring next year – to Bermuda.”

“Holy fucking shit,” said. “You think the Chief of Police is in Wilson’s pocket.”

“Can’t prove a damn thing,” McGuire said. “But, yeah, I do. So you see the problem. I ask the Chief to authorize a big raid out on Lake Scranton, and he’s gonna turn me down flat – which he might well have done anyway. But more than that…” He let his voice trail off.

“He’ll tell Wilson we know where he is,” I said.

“Fucking Wilson’d turn that place out there into Fort Knox,” Karl said. “You’d need an armored division to take it.”

“Either that, or he’ll just disappear again,” I said. “And if he does, what do you figure the chances are we’d find the bastard again, before election day?”

McGuire snorted. “Snowball in Hell – if the odds are even that good.”

“Which means we’re fucked,” Karl said.

“No,” I told him. “It means we’re royally fucked.”

We got sent out on a call that turned out to be a false alarm. A woman living on Kaiser Avenue reported a werewolf prowling around her house. Karl and I didn’t turn up any werewolves, but we did find a guy from the neighborhood – he could’ve used a haircut and a beard trim, but he was still human – who liked to peek through windows. We sent the jerk home with a warning that Karl reinforced with a little bit of vampire Influence.

It was about time for our break then, so we headed for Jerry’s Diner, which was nearby. The mood I was in, I almost hoped somebody would try to stick the place up while we were there.

I was stirring sugar into my coffee when a thought occurred to me. “Karl, that Influence you laid on the peeping tom a little while ago….”

He put down his mug of Type O and looked at me. “Yeah?”

“Could you use it on Wilson’s guards? Maybe get them all to drop their guns and take a nice nap?”

“All of them?” He shook his head slowly. “No way, Stan. If there’s a technique for controlling a bunch of guys all at once, I never heard of it. I’d have to do them one at a time, and I don’t think it would take long before the others tumbled to what I was up to. They’d open up on me – and since those fuckers work for Wilson, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are packing silver bullets.”

“Shit,” I said. “Well, it was worth a try. I was hoping you could put them under your spell long enough for us to–”

“Wait – what did you say?” Karl was looking at me with an odd expression on his face.

“Just this crazy idea that you’d be able to–”

“I know what you meant,” he said, and stood up abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched as he went to the rack near the front door where Jerry keeps all the free print material that’s available for customers to take. I thought I remembered several books of realty listings, as well as the Pennysaver Press, a local rag that’s full of cheap classified ads from people with stuff to sell. The Chamber of Commerce puts some of its publications there, too.

But when Karl returned to our table, he was carrying a copy of The Weekender, which bills itself as “The Wyoming Valley’s #1 Arts and Entertainment Free Weekly.” It’s also the only such paper in the area, so the distinction of being number one doesn’t mean too much.

Karl sat down again and began rapidly flipping the pages. He didn’t bother to explain what the hell he was doing.

“If you’re looking for the ‘gentlemen’s club’ ads, I believe they’re towards the back,” I told him.

“Figured you’d know that,” he said, without looking up. “But I’m pretty sure they also keep track of what bands’re playing at the local bars… Yeah, here we go.”

He began scanning the page he’d stopped at. Then his eyes stopped moving. “Good – we’re in luck. They’re still in the area. Got a gig in Wilkes-Barre, starting tomorrow night.”

“You’re gonna let me in on this great discovery sooner or later, right?”

“Sooner,” he said, closing the paper and dropping it on the table in front of me. “Our big problem is all these heavily armed dudes guarding Wilson. We can’t fight ’em, so we’ve gotta find the way to get the fuckers out of there.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“OK, how’s this – what would you say if I told you I know where we can find us a Siren?”

The Banshees were beginning a two-night engagement at the Palace, a club in South Wilkes-Barre that looked like no palace I’d ever heard of. We’d called ahead, and the manager had told us that the band was expected to finish its last set around 2am.

I hadn’t been in Wilkes-Barre in a while, and returning now made me feel kind of depressed. Lacey Brennan lived here – or she used to, before taking an extended vacation to visit her sister. I wondered where Lacey was at that moment, what she was doing, and how she was feeling. I also wondered if she was ever coming back.

Then I told myself to suck it up and focus on the job at hand. The stakes were too high for me to fuck up now because I was feeling moony over a woman. Even if the woman was Lacey.

The Palace’s dressing room for performers was located in a basement that looked like it hadn’t been swept out since Bush was President – the first one. It was ten after two when I knocked on the door, which was answered by the lead singer, who I remembered went by the name of some insect – Daddy Longlegs, that was it.

He looked at me and said, “What?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“We’d like a few minutes of your time,” I said. Politeness pays, especially when you want a favor from some people who probably don’t like you very much.

He stared a couple of seconds longer. “Hey – I know you.”

“Yeah, you do.” I held up my ID folder and let him see my badge. It was meaningless here, since Karl and I were out of our jurisdiction – but I was hoping a bunch of musicians wouldn’t know about stuff like that. “Mind if we come in?”

“Yeah, OK. Sure.”

He stepped back and let us into a twenty-by-twenty windowless room with concrete floors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and heating pipes running across the ceiling. There were some beat-up gray lockers, a couple of long benches, and another door through which I could hear water running.

The other two guys in the band looked up from the task of putting their instruments away. They didn’t seem happy to see us, but nobody went for a weapon. That was about the best I figured we could expect.

I looked at Daddy Longlegs. “Where’s your bass player – the girl?”

“She’s in the shower.”

“You mind getting her for me?”

He took a couple of steps toward the open door and called, “Hey, Scar! Come on out – we got visitors.”

The sound of running water stopped. A minute or so later, the young woman – whose real name, I knew, was Meredith Schwartz – came out, using a towel to wipe down her buzz-cut blonde hair. Apart from the towel, she was naked, but the guys in the band showed about as much interest as if she’d been wearing a suit of armor.

She looked at Daddy Longlegs. “Hey – who called five-oh?”

“Nobody,” he told her. “Guy said he wants to talk to us.”

She turned to me. “What about?”

“Why don’t you put something on first?” I said. I was trying to keep my gaze focused on her face, but one quick glance below told me that she had several more tats – besides the human heart on her arm that I’d seen before – and no pubic hair.

“How come?” She gave me an evil grin. “This ain’t in public or nothin’.”

According to the research Karl and I had done on the band the night before, Meredith Schwartz was an honors graduate of Mount Holyoke College, but she sure didn’t act or talk like a typical Seven Sisters grad – at least, I hoped she didn’t.

“We appreciate that you got the right to dress however you want in private,” Karl said. “But we were hoping to have a conversation, and you’re kind of… distracting.” Then he gave her a big smile.

“Hey, you’re a vamp!” she said with delight. “I didn’t know there were any vamp cops.”

“There’s at least one,” Karl said. “So, you mind getting dressed, or what?”

I couldn’t tell if he put any Influence behind the request, but Meredith shrugged and said, “Sure.”

She walked over to one of the lockers and pulled out a sleeveless T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of old Adidas running shoes. Without wasting time, she put them all on.

I, of course, didn’t stare at her tight young body while all this was happening. I’m not some creepy old man. But I do have good peripheral vision.

Meredith finished tying her shoelaces and straightened up. “Better?”

“Less distracting, anyway,” Karl said. “Thanks.”

She gave him a look that said she might not be averse to distracting him again sometime, but turned toward me as I said, “We’re not here to give you guys a hard time – about anything. Truth is, we need to ask you for a favor.”

One of the other guys said, “Favor? What kind of favor?”

“We want to make use of your band’s special talent – more precisely, Scar’s ability to drive men into a frenzy by her singing.”

“In a house near Scranton,” Karl said, “there’s a very bad dude holed up, surrounded by a bunch of guys with guns who aren’t afraid to use them. If we went straight in after him, there’d be a bloodbath.”

“Even assuming we could get authorization to go in after him,” I said, “which we can’t.”

The beanpole who called himself Daddy Longlegs looked at me. “How come?”

“Politics,” was all I said, but his nod seemed to say that he understood.

“So you want Scar to sing to these guys,” he said, “so they’ll run after her and forget all about guarding this bad guy you wanna bust.”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” I said.

Scar looked at me, hands on hips. “So, what’s the catch?”

“It could be dangerous,” I told her. “Very dangerous.”

Her challenging expression slowly changed into a wide grin. “Shit, man – that ain’t the catch,” she said. “That’s the fun.”

We’d borrowed the flatbed truck from Karl’s cousin Ernie, who owned a John Deere franchise and used the vehicle to move heavy equipment around. Tonight it was being used to transport Banshee’s amps and instruments, along with a portable generator I’d brought to provide power. When I’d suggested that Scar just sing a cappella, the other band members had insisted on being there. I’d explained why this gig might be more risky than what they were used to, and Daddy Longlegs had spoken for the others when he’d told me, “No way, man! We’re a unit, an organic entity. Scar risks her neck, then we’re gonna be right there with her!”

Organic entity. Right. Normally I don’t like being called “man”, but I was prepared to make an exception in the case of Daddy Longlegs, especially when he told me that he could drive a stick shift.

It was Wednesday night. Banshee had been committed to play at the Palace the night before, and although I’d offered to make up the eight hundred bucks they’d lose by not performing, they wouldn’t even consider it. “It ain’t just the money,” Scar had explained. “We punt this gig with zero notice, word’s gonna get around that we’re unreliable. Then who’s gonna hire us? We gotta think about the future of the band.”