Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (64 page)
The phoenix screamed again, and this time Carter knew it would emerge from its aerie. He looked up just as its massive hooked beak poked over the edge of its nest and its claws, in preparation for flight, wrapped themselves around the rim of the platform. Sadowski and his two accomplices stared upward, slack-jawed.
With a sudden, even ungainly, lurch, the phoenix plummeted from its nest, then spread its wings, the width of a school bus, and soared above their heads. The two soldiers behind Sadowski fell back a few steps, and as the bird came lower, heading, Carter suddenly realized, for the open doors behind them, one of the two—the one with a bell tattooed on his bare forearm—took a furious swing at it with the aluminum bat. The end of the bat caught the claws with a loud crack, and the bird, squawking in pain, wheeled in the air and beat a retreat toward the other end of the bestiary.
“I got it!” the tattooed man cried, his voice filled with as much terror as exultation. “I got the bastard!”
But the phoenix wasn’t done—it simply coasted in a great slow circle, then with one more beat of its red-feathered wings, a beat that sent a shivering wind through the whole facility, it shot back toward the open doors. Sadowski fired, missed, but the bird had its prehensile claws extended; there was a look of fire in its eyes and its vulture-like head was tucked into its body. It went straight for its attacker, and before he could even think to swing the bat again, the phoenix had snatched him up in its claws—one of the talons appeared to tear completely through the man’s body—and then, with its wings folded back like a missile, it flashed through the open doors and out of sight.
Dust from its exit filled the air. And all that was left of the tattooed man was an aluminum bat lying in the dirt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sadowski said in a tone of mechanical disbelief, and Greer said, “Didn’t I tell you you’d fucked up?”
The other man with a bat stood stunned, looking at the spot where his accomplice had been just seconds ago. Then, throwing his own bat on the ground, he turned without a word and ran out the doors . . . leaving Sadowski to fend for himself.
It was only then that Carter thought to look at the row of cages—and saw that the lever Rashid had pulled had opened all of their gates at once. The animals had not yet realized their freedom, but they would, soon. Greer must have reached the same conclusion because he suddenly made for the lever.
Sadowski shouted, “Hold it!” and fired again, and this time Greer collapsed, blood spurting from his right thigh. “God
damn
you, Sadowski! That was my good leg!”
damn
you, Sadowski! That was my good leg!”
“I told you not to move!”
But something now
was
moving—and it was at the farthest cage, the one that held the gorgon. Carter saw the tip of its enormous snout protrude from the open gate, as if it wasn’t sure if this was a trap or not. Then its head came out entirely, and swung, like a huge pendulum, from one direction to the other, taking in the whole arena.
was
moving—and it was at the farthest cage, the one that held the gorgon. Carter saw the tip of its enormous snout protrude from the open gate, as if it wasn’t sure if this was a trap or not. Then its head came out entirely, and swung, like a huge pendulum, from one direction to the other, taking in the whole arena.
Jakob stepped between al-Kalli and the emerging monster, drawing out his gun, but al-Kalli angrily batted it out of his hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Jakob looked at a total loss; he’d thought he was doing his job.
“It won’t harm
me.
”
me.
”
It was then that Carter realized just how mad Mohammed al-Kalli really was.
The beast approached slowly, still swinging its ponderous head from side to side so that its bulbous eyes, situated far back on either side of its skull, could take in the whole landscape. It was like watching a tank rumble cautiously across land-mined terrain.
Jakob walked backward, never taking his eyes off the animal, and toward Sadowski, who was speechless and immobilized.
But al-Kalli actually took several steps forward. He opened his arms, the white sleeves billowing, and said something, not in English, to the beast.
Carter knew that the creature would be attuned to movement, that it would notice whatever was in motion, so he tried to make his own retreat as subtle as possible. When the animal’s snout was pointed directly at him, temporarily limiting its vision, he took a giant step back. And then, seconds later, another. He glanced backward, over his shoulder, but Jakob and Sadowski were already gone.
Greer, too, was hobbling toward the doors, using one of the aluminum bats as a makeshift cane and leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The doors to the outside were still wide open, the waning sunlight casting a golden pool on the hard-packed earth just inside the entrance.
Al-Kalli spoke again, in Arabic it seemed, and Carter detected movement behind the gates where the basilisks and the griffin were kept. At any moment they, too, could stagger from their enormous pens and into the greater world beyond.
The gorgon, with its stumpy legs splayed out from its body like a gigantic toad, stopped a dozen yards or so from al-Kalli. As both a reptile and a mammal, a bizarre precursor of the dinosaurs and the large land mammals to come, it displayed a strange collection of traits: Its skin was green and scaly, like a crocodile’s, but it was also tufted here and there with clumps of grizzled black fur. Its eyes were large and lizardlike; it had no visible ears, just hollow indentations well behind the eyes; canine fangs, shaped like sabers, grew down from its upper jaw; and a long, thick, serpentlike tail dragged along the ground behind it.
Al-Kalli spoke again, in the soothing tones you might use to calm a nervous stallion, and he even held up one hand as if he were prepared to stroke the neck of the waiting beast.
Carter had never seen the creature so clearly as he saw it now; usually, it was lurking in the back of its pen, or hidden altogether in the enormous rocky grotto provided at its rear. It didn’t like to be fully exposed; it shied away from the light. But now, as he studied its stance—its terrifying head held high, its broad, clawed feet planted firmly on the ground, its jaws parted—he knew what was about to happen . . . and even if he’d found a way to warn al-Kalli, to tell him that he was exposing himself to the most ruthless predator the planet had ever known, the man would never have listened.
And there wasn’t time, anyway.
Carter saw the gorgon lower its body, gathering strength, and then, like an enormous jumping bullfrog, it leapt into the air and landed, claws extended and already tearing at him, on top of al-Kalli. He screamed once, but the gorgon quickly put a stop to that, dropping its jaws and snapping his head off with a swift, sideways ripping motion; the head rolled to one side, the mouth still open, the eyes still staring, as the gorgon shredded the flesh it still squatted over.
Carter, knowing there was no time to waste, made a run for it, racing toward the open doors. The gorgon would make quick work of al-Kalli, and be right back on the hunt again. He bolted outside, and nearly crashed into Del, who was just about to run in.
“What’s going on?” Del said as he grabbed Carter’s shoulders. “What’s in that place?”
“Later—I’ll tell you later,” Carter gasped. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Del said, “I’ve got a guy who’s bleeding bad, behind the trees.”
It had to be Greer. Carter glanced over at the golf cart, now a pile of wreckage, tumbled onto its side—the work, undoubtedly, of the escaping phoenix—and no longer usable to transport the injured Greer.
Carter followed Del for a couple hundred yards to where Greer was propped up against a tree, tying a tourniquet, made from his own shirtsleeve, around the leg where Sadowski had shot him.
“I knew something like this would happen!” Greer snarled. “I fuckin’ knew it!”
“We’ve got to get out of here, now!” Carter said, grabbing Greer under one arm and hoisting him, groaning, to his feet. With Carter holding one arm and Del the other, they were able to drag him away from the bestiary and back toward the house. But by the time they reached the wooden footbridge, Greer was screaming in agony, begging for a brief rest.
“Okay,” Carter said urgently, “but we’ve got to do it under the bridge.”
Del looked puzzled, then followed Carter’s gaze. What he saw he would never have believed—there were creatures that had been extinct for eons roaming the green lawns and eucalyptus groves, armor-plated dinosaurs (some kind of ankylosaurids?) lumbering between the trees, rubbing their spiky backs against the bark of the trees. Not far from them a powerful, spotted catlike creature, with a glistening patch of black fur that bristled and swelled like wings above its shoulders, prowled the gravel pathway. As Del watched in amazement, the hyenalike beast (could it be a homotherium, he wondered, thought to have disappeared at the end of the Pleistocene, fourteen thousand years ago?) stealthily approached one of the peacocks preening in the late-day sun, then pounced on it with the fluid movement of a flying tiger. Purple feathers flew in a frenzied cloud.
Del looked at Carter, as if for confirmation of what was before his eyes, but Carter just nodded, and hauled Greer deeper beneath the footbridge. Greer cupped a hand in the stream and rubbed the cold water over his face to keep from going into shock. Under his breath, he muttered an unending stream of curses and epithets.
“We can get some help and come back for you here,” Carter said, but Greer shook his head and said, “I’ll never last—I’m losing too much blood.”
“You want to try to move again?” Carter said, though he doubted Greer would be able to make it far.
“I have to.” Greer propped himself up again with the aluminum bat, and after Del checked to see that the animals were still far enough off—the cat was still dining on the peacock—they skulked back toward the empty stables, then down the sloping hillside to the forecourt of the house . . . where Del’s truck and al-Kalli’s black Mercedes were still parked.
“Let’s get him in the truck,” Carter said, and as Del threw open the door on the passenger side, Greer tossed the bat away and said, “I can do it—I can do it.” He hauled himself up onto the seat, a thick ribbon of blood coursing down his leg.
“Take him to UCLA hospital—it’s the closest!” Carter said to Del, and Del said, “Where are you going?”
But Carter already had a plan, if he was lucky. He ran to the limousine, ducked his head inside, and yes—Jakob had left the keys in the ignition; why not, when the car was parked on a gated estate with its own security force? “I’m going home!” Carter shouted across to Del. With the wildfires spreading—and now a pack of primeval predators roaming free—he only wanted to get to Beth and Joey and make sure they were safe. Nothing else mattered to him now.
CHAPTER FORTY
BY THE TlME he got to the back gates that provided the service entrance to the estate, Sadowski was huffing and puffing so hard he thought his chest would explode. He swung them wide open and, once safely outside, stopped and leaned against the wall, his head down, his palms flat against the vine-covered stone.
Jesus H. Christ, what had happened back there?
The plan was just to stage a little raid, kind of like the one al-Kalli himself had sponsored back in Mosul. But Sadowski had been cheated on that one—he knew that Greer took home a whole lot more, in that big sealed box, than he’d ever shared up with the other guys on the mission—and this was going to be Sadowski’s chance to even up the score. And maybe screw up whatever new moneymaking deal Greer had struck with the Arab now.
But that just wasn’t how it had turned out so far. Man, was it not. Florio was dead—that gigantic bird had stuck a claw right through his chest cavity—and there was no telling what had happened to Tate, that cowardly piece of shit. Sadowski swallowed hard—his mouth was so dry he had almost no spit—and glanced at his watch. What was supposed to have taken no more than ten or fifteen minutes had consumed the better part of an hour. And if he didn’t get out of there fast—very fast—he’d be cooked right along with everything else that fucking Arab owned.
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