Desperate Souls (13 page)

“Where is he?”

Joe shrugged. “That’s the one thing I don’t know. We snatched one of his dealers off the street and tortured his ass for three days.

Motherfucker never said a word, never screamed, never even made a sound. He looked as dead when we grabbed him as he did when we dumped him.” He smiled. “Well, almost as dead.”

“Grab another one,” Frank said.

“We’ve grabbed four of them. Same story. You ever seen these ‘soldiers’? Malachai’s messing with forces he shouldn’t be.”

Frank’s voice assumed a mocking quality. “What are you saying?”

“They don’t call it Black Magic for nothing.”

Jake slept for two hours. His dreams never became intense enough to awaken him, but when he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, the vague images of swampland, creepers, and snakes lingered in his mind like fading ghosts. He thought he remembered swallowing a mouthful of dirt, and he craved a cigarette for the first time in eleven months.

They’ll be back,
he thought, picturing his zombie assassins.
Whatever they were, more will come.

He rose from his bed, and pain seized his lower spine and rocketed up his back. He unleashed an agonized scream and dropped to all fours, only to have the impact send another wave of pain ripping through his body.

Oh, Jesus Christ!

He had not experienced such intense physical distress since Cain had tortured him in an abandoned factory in Queens. But that had been in his mind, a form of mental torture that had only seemed real. The excruciating pain he experienced now was all too existent. He tried to stand but screamed again and pitched face forward to the floor with tears in his eyes.

Ah, God… God, make it stop …

Jake allowed his breathing to normalize, then worked his way up onto his hands and knees again. He found it impossible to move without triggering the pain and surprised himself by whimpering like a wounded dog. In those moments, he knew that if for some reason he had to live with this pain forever, he would kill himself—even if it meant being subjected to Cain’s vengeful torture for eternity.

He steeled his mind and crawled to the bathroom. Using the sink for leverage, he pulled himself into a standing position and pissed in the toilet. Wincing, he imagined his body as two cones, one perched upside down on top of the other, with their touching points representing his lower back. If either cone moved even a centimeter off point, pain racked his physical being.

After relieving himself, he sighed. Even ten seconds without the torturous pain eased his mind. But the mere act of zipping his jeans fly sent new tremors through his body, causing him to cry out. He collapsed into a heap on the bathroom floor, his legs dangling out of the cramped space.

Oh, God… Oh, God, what’s happened?

The car wreck,
he thought.
Whiplash or something.

Crashing the Malibu had been an act of desperation that saved his life, but now he had to pay the price.

A pound of flesh …

Even when he remained still, the pain in his back throbbed, disorienting him. He had no idea how much time had passed before he motivated himself to get up and crawl again. He made it halfway to the bed when his quivering arms gave out and he collapsed yet again. Grimacing, he rocked back and forth on his back. What had he done to deserve such torment?

Don’t answer that…

Jake lay on the floor in a fetal position, praying his body would recover. Hearing the door open and close in the reception area, he could not help but flinch. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming in response to the spasm in his back.

He heard footsteps in his office.

Holy shit… Holy … fucking… shit!

He peered up at his bed, where he had left his Glock hidden beneath his pillow. Sweat beaded on his brow and stung his eyes. He had not expected the dead things to return in broad daylight.

Why not? This building was as deserted before business hours as it was in the middle of the night.

“Jake?” A female voice.

Carrie!

Carrie Scott worked for him as a bookkeeper, scheduler, and occasional receptionist. Three times a week she came in for two hours, and he called her his Person Friday. He had even used her on a couple of stakeouts.

“Carrie …” Speaking increased the pain.

“Are you okay, Jake?” Her voice sounded louder, and he knew she had her face close to the door now.

“No!” Spittle flew from his mouth, and he groaned. “Get in here!”

The door opened, and he heard heels clacking across the hardwood floor. He saw her shadow, then her legs, and he looked up. She towered five feet above him.

“Oh, my God! What the hell happened to you? Were you shot?”

He shook his head.

She crouched down on one knee, and he found himself focusing on the texture of her sheer black stockings. A dwarf with a perfectly proportioned body, so that she resembled a person of normal height who had shrunk, Carrie favored provocative Goth fashions. “What’s wrong, then?”

He forced himself up on one elbow. “My back …”

“Well, I’m too small to lift you up and carry you to bed. You’re going to have to do it yourself.” Her voice took on a surprisingly maternal tone for a twenty-two-year-old grad student. “I’ll do what I can, okay, sweetie?”

Jake nodded, grateful for a simple yes or no question.

Carrie stood and offered her hand, which he took. She wore black fingernail polish and a pewter bracelet with a grinning skull surrounded by a floral wreath. Her glossy black stacked platform boots added seven inches to her height. She pulled him up, and he set his weight on one knee, then managed to stumble the rest of the way to the bed and collapse onto the mattress with a protracted cry.

“Honey, what did you do to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he said, gasping. “I just woke up this way …”

“Uh-huh.” She looked him over. “I find that a little hard to believe. Something must have happened.”

“I totaled the Malibu last night. The tow slip is on your desk.”

“Oh, a car accident. And you waking up like this. What a coincidence.”

“Save the sarcasm. Can’t you see I’m dying here?”

“I think it’s unattractive when a grown man cries.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not screwing.”

“I’m not going to tell Ripper what you just said because you’re a pathetic cripple, and he won’t care about that.”

For the five months she had been working for him, Carrie had referred to her boyfriend, Ripper, in a manner reserved for groupies. Jake had never met Ripper, who Carrie described as a musician, but as far as he had been able to discern, the lothario was normal height. “Go to the Rolodex and look up Dr. Metivier. Tell him it’s an emergency, but don’t tell him what’s wrong. I want him over here right away.”

Carrie’s Irish features formed a frown. “What kind of doctor makes house calls in this city?”

“Just call him.”

Dr. Lawrence Metivier had a thriving medical practice, albeit one unknown to the Internal Revenue Service. Although he maintained a private practice with a limited number of patients in Amityville, Long Island, he made regular house calls to Brooklyn, Staten Island, Manhattan, and Queens. He drew the line at New Jersey.

Lawrence had several high-profile clients, most of them on the shadier side of the law: Mafioso, crooked cops, criminal defense lawyers, even politicians, men and women who had reason to keep certain medical needs off the record, which was how the doctor preferred to keep his income. Jake first learned about the unique medical services that Lawrence provided through Gary Brown. Lawrence treated drug overdoses, gunshot wounds, and stabbings with equal discretion. He had even falsified a death certificate or two.

Jake held none of this against the man and, lying facedown on the bed with his buttocks in the air, breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Larry enter and exchange pleasantries with Carrie, who showed him into the bedroom.

“Lying down on the job?” Larry said to Jake, then turned to Carrie. “Thank you, dear.” He closed the door on her, giving them privacy.

“Har, har,” Jake said.

Larry set his black bag down on the foot of Jake’s bed. “The sad thing is, I’ve seen you look worse. Where does it hurt?”

“Back,” Jake said, groaning. “Hips. Neck. Balls.”

Larry pulled up a chair and sat, then looked Jake over. In return, Jake focused on the man’s gleaming leather shoes and Italian slacks.

“I don’t see any blood, so I take it nobody shot you in the back?”

Jake shook his head, the result being that he pressed his face against the mattress. “I totaled my car outside One PP last night.”

“That was
you?
I saw the photo on the front page of the
Post,
but I didn’t bother to read the caption. I just figured it was an incredibly stupid and inebriated crook turning himself in after suffering a guilty conscience. Jesus, man, what happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. I walked away from that feeling fine. Then when I got out of bed this morning …”

“Yeah, that’s how it happens. Too bad you can’t sue yourself for negligence. Well, I can’t do much with you like that. You’re going to have to stand up.” Larry offered his arm, which Jake took, then swung his legs off the bed. “That’s it.”

Wincing, Jake staggered forward, then back, grabbing the bed’s headboard for balance. His face contorted in ways he didn’t know possible.

“Try to stand straight,” Larry said.

Jake’s head trembled with effort, and his eyes watered.

“Okay, okay. Don’t kill yourself. Here’s what I see: your left hip is two inches higher than your right hip. That’s a hell of a lot of twisting and knotting going on inside your body. I’m going to give you a shot of morphine to ease the pain and prescribe some heavy-duty muscle relaxers, the kind you’ll have to receive by special delivery, if you know what I mean. All you can do is stay off your back and wait for them to kick in. Your muscles have to relax in order for your spine to return to normal. This will pass as quickly as it started.”

“How long will that take?”

“A minimum of four days. Then you’ll need an MRI—”

“Screw that.”

“What?”

“I can’t wait a minimum of four days. Some people out there are trying to kill me. I need to be able to defend myself, and I need to be clear clearheaded.”

Larry glanced at the window. “Is this something I need to be concerned about while I’m in here?”

Jake shook his head.

“Good. Well, I guess we can skip the morphine, then. With your history, I thought you’d consider that a silver lining. I can probably get you in for an MRI tomorrow—”

“Today.”

“That’s not possible, Jake.”

“Today. “

“Be reasonable.”

“Did you hear what I said a minute ago?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then make it today.”

“I’m not God, and you’re not the president of the United States.”

“How much am I paying you for this little visit?”

“Minus the injection? Five bills and we’re even. But the meter’s running.”

“I’ll double that. Just get me in now.”

“You have insurance?”

Jake nodded.

Larry sighed. “All right, but you’ll have to come out to the island. I know someone who will squeeze you in there.”

“No problem. You can drive me.”

“Only because I have to go that way anyway, but I’m not bringing you back.”

Jake blew air out of his cheeks. “Now you can give me the damned shot.”

“Thank God. If nothing else, it will make you more pleasant.” Larry opened his bag, rumbled through its contents, and prepared a hypodermic needle, which he flicked with his finger and squirted into the air.

“Then you can help me get dressed.”

“Christ. Be sure to leave your gun here.”

“Fat chance.”

“You know what MRI stands for? Magnetic resonance imaging. Also known as
NMRI
, as in
nuclear
magnetic resonance imaging. The scanner is so magnetic that when you’re pinned down inside it, any metal objects in the room will be sucked into it with so much force that the object will tear through your head and into your brain. They’ll make you check your belongings, but knowing you, you’ll find a way to smuggle in your piece. I strongly advise against it.”