Recall Night, page 9
part #2 of An Eli Carver Supernatural Thriller Series
I nod. I actually feel a little better about wasting the bastard now.
“Musashi says that ‘to win any battle, you must fight as if you are already dead’,” I tell them. “I’ve been doing that since even before Caitlyn and Scottie died. I was beginning to find a different way when Vern murdered them. So that set my path. You lot want to trail me like tattered flags in my wake, be my guest. Or fuck off. I won’t lose any sleep over you or anyone else I killed. Musashi also said, ‘Do not regret what you have done.’ There’s nothing I can do about what’s already happened. All I can do now is walk the path of the rōnin and try to do good as I pass.” Here I am, talking to my fucking self. I guess I’m trying to convince myself this is all true.
“You killed four men yesterday!” Graney says, his voice high with incredulity.
“I killed four mob assholes. That makes the world a better place.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be rationalizing a lot on this new path of yours,” Michael says quietly.
I shrug. “Who isn’t? Everybody does that every day, in ways small or large. We’re all just well-dressed animals, remember? Fuck off, all of you.”
I drag a chair up close to the window so they can’t get in front of me and pull food from the sack by the bed for my breakfast. Stakeouts are long and boring, but I have the patience of Job when I need it.
* * *
It’s a long, boring day, but if nothing else, the five fuckwits are scarce and I’m left genuinely alone. I enjoy the peace and quiet, but I’m starting to think maybe staking this place out isn’t the best use of my time. Perhaps I should be back at the Bridgewater house, putting the hard word on Alfie for intel, or trying to get Stella alone so she’ll talk. Maybe there’s a way to get her alone and pry information out. I’ll give it a few hours after closing before I quit.
It’s close to 8:00 p.m. and I’m eating the last of my supplies and about to give up when my patience finally pays off. A limo pulls up out the front of Inner Vision and a woman gets out. It’s dark, but the streetlights are enough that I can see it’s Cora, Lombardi’s supposedly kidnapped wife. She seems entirely untroubled and free to move where she pleases. A large man climbs out behind her, dark skin, bald head. He’s wearing a long black coat with iridescent feathers around the collar, his feet clad in shining leather black shoes with long pointed toes. Papa Night. How did he leave without me seeing? Maybe while I was sleeping last night?
“At the back,” Michael says quietly. I hadn’t noticed him reappear beside me. I assume the others are back too, but don’t turn to check.
Another car has pulled up under a tree behind the warehouse and a few men climb out. It’s harder to make out details for them, much gloomier out the back than in front where there are streetlights. They disappear out of view under the edge of the warehouse and don’t emerge in the alley, so I can only assume they’ve gone in the back.
Papa Night produces keys and lets himself and Cora in the front of Inner Vision, and the limo they arrived in smoothly glides away from the curb. The door shuts behind them. Well, something is happening. I wonder if one of the others arriving around the back was Andretti. Whatever, I need to be closer. Time to move in and see if I can’t spy something.
“You’re a fucking thug, remember?” Graney says.
“You are certainly no ninja,” Sly says, laughing. “And besides, I already told you not to mess with that badass Obeah shit or whatever that dude is into.”
Michael catches my eye and offers half a smile. “Maybe today is a good day to die?”
“Fuck all y’all.”
I sneak out the back of the house, making sure to take all my garbage with me. I don’t expect to return. I move away from Inner Vision so I’m a good hundred yards past before I cross the street, dump the trash, then head around the block to come into the parking area behind the warehouse. At first I’ll rely on the trees and the night to mask my presence. After that, I’ll play it as it comes.
At the rear of the warehouse is a large metal roller door, closed, and beside it a regular door with a glass panel in the top half. The glass is frosted, light glows through it from inside. Several cars are parked nearby.
The night is dark and tree shadows allow me to get right up to within a few yards of the door, but I can’t hear a thing. There’s more light coming from the far side of the warehouse. Trees grow close to the building there, only a gap of a few feet between them and the wall. Orange glow paints the trunks next to a long window, a little higher than my eye level.
“You’re gonna get shot to death, fucker!” Alvin sounds especially happy about it.
I can’t help wondering if these assholes are simply going to hang around until I die a violent death. They’re waiting for the ultimate matinee performance. So maybe I have them for life, however long or short that may be.
“You will certainly fuck up soon,” Graney says.
We’ll see. They’ll have to wait a long time, if I have any say in the matter. But it is what it is. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been on borrowed time since the bloodbath at Vern’s when Caitlyn and Scottie died.
I sidle up near the warehouse under the shadows of the trees. The long window isn’t frosted, but it’s over my head height as it turns out. Double-checking I’m alone, I jump and grab the narrow sill, do a half chin-up to peek over the edge. The warehouse is huge and largely empty. Dozens of cardboard boxes of various size are stacked up along one wall, but the space is so big they hardly make a dent in it. There’s some furniture around, tables and chairs, some kind of mechanical gear up in one corner I can’t quite see. But in the middle of the open space are two stainless steel tables, like you’d see in a coroner’s lab for autopsies. They stand only a few feet apart, naked metal gleaming under the high halogen lights up in the ceiling. What the fuck are they for? Several people are milling around, and I recognize Furio Andretti from Lombardi’s photos. He’s head-to-head with Cora and Papa Night, talking with serious faces. My arms start to tremble and I drop back down.
Something hard presses into the small of my back.
“You fuckwit!” Dwight howls, laughing.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing?” The voice has a strong New York accent.
I don’t wait to assess the situation. Sometimes you have to move hard and fast. When people put a gun on you, they expect instant compliance. If they press it right against your body, they’ve given themselves away. Knowing exactly where the gun is, I spin on the spot, using my forearm to bat it aside. The mook’s eyes are widening as my other hand arcs around and my hard fist cracks into the side of his head, right up against the temple. His eyes cross and he drops, but the gun booms, his finger twitching on the trigger despite my speed. Cement chips burst from the wall beside me where the bullet strikes. Damn it.
But that’s the least of my problems. There’s another dude a few yards farther away and his gun is rising.
“Finally dead!” Alvin shrieks.
Fuck that. I hit the deck and roll, snatching up the gun that was about to kill me as I do. The mook fires fast, dirt kicking up beside me, but I keep rolling. If he was smart, he’d track ahead of me. In the instant I hear a pause in his firing, which is almost certainly the moment he realizes he needs to fire at where I’ll be not where I am, I stop and twist back the other way.
I’m a crack shot, but writhing on the ground like this I take no chances and aim for center mass. His weapon booms again as my bullet punches into his chest with a satisfying burst of blood and he staggers back. Full marks for tenacity, he doesn’t go down and squeezes off again. Hot fire sears across my left forearm, but I ignore it and put a bullet between his eyes.
Blood trickles warm down over my wrist and hand, but I can tell the wound is superficial without looking. I have bigger concerns. Shouting and doors opening at the back of the warehouse. The guy I punched out is stirring, so I press his gun against his head and fire. Blood and bone spatter out across the dirt. I can’t have him getting up again.
“Will you just fucking die already!” Alvin says, a distinct whine in his voice.
No, I will not.
If I try to run, I’ll get shot in the back. Passing the mook’s gun to my left hand, already slick with blood from my forearm, I draw my Glock from the shoulder holster and spin around just as men start pouring around the corner. The first reckless idiot gets hot lead in the brain and drops like the sack of shit he is.
“Hold back!” someone yells.
Another body starts around the wall, then leaps back as his friend falls at his feet. I squeeze a shot off anyway and hear a yelp, but don’t know if it’s from shock or injury.
“Who the fuck is out there?”
I don’t know the voice and I don’t plan to answer. I’ve bought enough time to run. I hurry back away from the corner, staying close to the trees, using their shadows for cover.
“Oh, finally!” Officer Graney says, grinning at something off to my right.
I have a half second to wonder what he means before I see Alfie step from behind a tree trunk beside me. He must have been there all along, in the shadows, and I backed up right to him. He’s already swinging something long and heavy. A crow bar, I notice, as I instinctively duck, but too slow. It cracks across the top of my head and everything swims into darkness.
* * *
I come to on the dirty ground, pain throbbing behind my eyes. It’s only been a few seconds, but already several people are leaning on me, holding me down while I’m tied up. It’s Hollywood bullshit that KOs last minutes or even hours. If a person is knocked unconscious for more than thirty or forty seconds, that’s potentially serious brain damage, or death. Most knockouts are only a few seconds and even that means a few days of mild concussion at least.
But these guys are smart enough not to fall for movie nonsense and they have me trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey already. The fact they haven’t simply put a bullet in my brain is interesting, but my thoughts are sluggish, I feel nauseated and untethered from reality. I can’t see straight, my vision blurry and doubling up in the low light.
Then everything is bright, too bright, and I realize I’ve been carried inside the warehouse. Something hard presses into me and more tugging and pain at my ankles, wrists, shoulders. Something presses hard against my chest. I phase in and out again and find I’ve been tied to a chair. Voices, smeared and slurring, come to me muffled, like I’m under water.
A sharp pain in my face as a hard, heavy palm slaps me. It helps straighten my vision and I suck in a long breath and force my eyes open, try to focus. Furio Andretti is leaning over me, hand drawn back ready to slap again.
“Oh, you see me now?” he asks, anger in his voice.
“I see you.” My voice is slurred, like I’ve downed half a bottle of bourbon. My head feels like the morning after I’ve downed half a bottle of bourbon. I force myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. My equilibrium begins to return.
“Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”
Cora is standing behind Andretti as he yells at me, her face serious. Across the room I see Papa Night, sitting in an armchair with his hands pressed together as if in prayer. His lips move as he mutters rapidly. There’s a thick, cloying smell, like incense but also like something else. I kind of recognize the odor but can’t place it. At least a half-dozen others are in the room, all men in suits. All Andretti’s crew, no doubt. I notice the shooter from Gino’s, Lebretta, among them.
My five assholes are all lined up along the wall not far from where I’m tied. Alvin, Dwight, and Graney look expectant and excited. Sly is watching Papa Night, his brow creased in a frown. Michael stares at the floor. As I notice him, he looks up and shrugs. “Might as well come clean,” he says in a defeated voice.
“You’re obviously working for Lombardi,” Andretti says. “Only he would be stupid enough to send someone so dumb. But how does he know about this place?”
Michael is right. Why should I hide anything now? “He doesn’t know about this place. I found it.”
“But he sent you?”
“He thinks you kidnapped Cora as part of your war.”
“Yeah, well he was supposed to think that. Keep him on edge. But the coward piece of shit has gone to ground. You know where he is?”
I press my lips together. Do I need to flip here? I wish my head wasn’t pounding so hard, it’s difficult to think. Goddamn Alfie, cracking me with a crowbar. Sturdy old bastard.
“Furio,” Cora says softly. “Time.”
He raises one hand to silence her without taking his eyes off me. I catch the look of anger that triggers across her face.
“You tell me where Lombardi is, you get to live. How’s that?”
“Oh, fuck off!” Alvin sounds like a wronged teenager.
“Just fucking kill the shithead,” Dwight adds.
Graney shakes his head, face twisted in disgust.
Sly turns and catches my eye. “Some bad shit gonna go down here. Probably best you get shot now.”
The smell in the room is increasing, a haze of smoke making the lights swim. My eyes are itchy and I can’t help blinking rapidly. I wonder if my head not clearing isn’t something to do with whatever this stuff is. The others present are rubbing their eyes and looking a little wasted.
“Furio, seriously,” Cora says. “If we don’t move now, we’ll miss the window. Everything will be wasted.”
He turns to her, a little unsteady on his feet. Everyone is getting wasted on this smoke.
“He’ll keep until afterwards,” Cora says. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Furio nods once. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.” He gives her an indulgent smile and I notice a slight wince crease her eyes. Seems like Andretti thinks he’s humoring her and that rankles.
His hands are shaking as he walks away from me. Papa Night is up out of the chair as soon as they move and he starts talking in a low voice. People hurry to comply with his instructions. Tall black candles are put all around the floor, Papa Night making tiny adjustments to their positions. The lights are all turned out, everything sinks into a fiery dim glow, the smoke drifting through the large space thickens. There is definitely more than a knock on the head affecting me now.
Papa Night raises his voice. It’s deep, sonorous, as he chants something in a language I can’t recognize. The words meld and slip, both jarring and mesmerizing. The others gather around the table, lit in flickering contrasts of shadow and orange candlelight. The half-a-dozen mobsters look at each other, all smirks and rolling eyes. They think this is bullshit. Now a few others have arrived, all of them black, middle-aged or older, four men and two women, dressed in bright colors, faces made up with striking, uncanny designs. They approach each mobster, dabbing something onto their faces as Night’s strident, deep voice chants on. Each suited mook stills, hands hanging limply, faces slack, they stand and stare. Then they’re chanting too, but low and whispered. What just happened to them? They’re led to form a circle just inside the stuttering black candles, one mook between each of the brightly-dressed others to form a large ring of people around the two autopsy tables.
My head swims, my eyes sting and blur as I repeatedly blink tears away. My hands strain at their bonds, I’m so desperate to rub my eyes, but I can’t.
Papa Night moves into the center and stands between the metal tables. The group begins slowly circling, counterclockwise, my view of Night a slow flicker play in each gap as they pass. All the mobsters move woodenly—zombified?—while the rest, Night’s people, are animated, their faces alive. I see Stella in the group, she’s crying, wet tears streaking her vibrant makeup. She glances over, but the moment she sees me looking she turns away.
Drums start from somewhere, a rolling, hypnotic cadence. I can’t see drummers or their instruments, but the sound fills the air along with the swirling, thickening smoke.
Alfie steps forward beside Papa Night, who turns and I jump when I see his face made up in that incredibly detailed skull corpse paint, like the poster in the shop. Did I black out again? When could he have done that? He wasn’t wearing it moments ago. It’s not a mask, his face moves naturally as his deep chant continues.
The drums thrum and pound, my heart races, my vision swims.
Night has a white chicken in each hand. Held by the legs they flap and thrash upside down. Alfie steps up with a knife and neatly takes the head clean off the first of them. Night holds the twitching bird over one of the autopsy tables, letting blood pour and spatter from its neck onto the shining metal. He throws the bird’s corpse aside, then turns. Alfie cuts again and Night repeats the act covering the other table with blood.
“This is no voodoo,” Sly says from somewhere I can’t see. “This is something else. Something far worse.”
The circling people continue their slow but constant rotation, whispering as they go, the suits somnambulant, the others lively. The sounds of their whispers, Night’s deep chanting, the thumping drums, it’s all drilling into my ears, into my brain, like a wind blowing incessantly across my mind. My vision struggles in the low light, swims with the drugged air.
Papa Night throws the second dead chicken aside and raises his hands, his voice rising too. Andretti and Cora step into the circle. They’re both naked but for sharp marks on their faces in charcoal or black face paint. Without instruction they each climb onto one of the autopsy tables and lay flat on their backs. Andretti is smirking too, like this is the craziest fun. He casts another indulgent look at Cora, then lays back. Her face is rigidly serious, her chest rises and falls rapidly with panting breath. She looks both elated and terrified.
Papa Night leans over Cora and she stares up at him, then nods once, decisively. He smiles. The circle of people keeps turning and whispering, but Night’s chant stops suddenly. The drums pound on, getting faster.
My chest heaves as the smoke in the gloomy room increases. Night’s people move to Andretti’s table and fall on him. Four of them grab an arm or leg each and crouch down, using all their weight to pull him hard against the metal surface. Alfie and Stella stand by Andretti’s head as the six mobsters continue their slow marching circle.
