Clickers III (9 page)

“Now…let’s try this again, Mr. Genova. Okay?”

Tony struggled hard to keep his cool. He didn’t know how long he was knocked out, but it couldn’t have been for very long. The next thing he knew, he was seated in one of his kitchen chairs, bound to it with thick twine. He knew the twine well—it was his, taken from the toolbox that he kept behind the vacuum cleaner in the closet.

Tony pretended to sigh and roll his eyes. In actuality, he used the movement to glance around the room. The interior of the condo was still dark, and the three figures who’d burst in uninvited were standing around him. He couldn’t hear or see anyone else.

Three against one,
he thought.
I’ve been in worse situations. Of course, I wasn’t tied to a fucking chair at the time.

“Mr. Genova?”

“I thought I fucking told you cock suckers…my name’s Larry DiMazzio.”

“In 1994 you were arrested and charged for the murder of Andrew Mihailov.” The man that said this looked barely young enough to shave or have his learner’s permit. “Your former employer, Mr. Marano, pulled some strings with the DA and the charges were dropped.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, kid.”

“The Mihailov family still doesn’t know who really killed Andrew. They knew of your arrest, of course, but the District Attorney was able to convince them it was the work of a Crip faction that had settled in the area briefly. The Mihailov family took care of that problem.” The man paused, cocked his head at Tony. “You remember what happened next, yes?”

Tony locked eyes with the baby-faced little fuck and tried to stare him down. The guy was telling the truth, but he couldn’t let himself be psyched out. The little fuck didn’t even blink. Neither did the other man, whom he now saw was taller, slightly older, with a smooth shaven face. The woman was dressed like her partners, dark slacks and shirt, dark overcoat. Her black hair was pulled back and tucked in a bun. She wore little to no makeup. Still, she was a looker. Despite his situation, Tony couldn’t help but let his gaze roam her body, exploring.

Baby-face cleared his throat. “Mr. Genova? Do you remember what happened?”

There was no sense in pretending. Obviously, they knew who he was. They weren’t buying the Larry DiMazzio cover. The only question that remained was who were they—and what did they want? Were they here to settle an old score? Unfinished business? Or maybe the remnants of the Marano empire had finally tracked him down?

Tony shrugged. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What’s it to me?”

“Just a confirmation that we’re not as stupid as you’re making us out to be.”

“I never said you were.”

“Your denial of who you are says otherwise,” the woman said.

“Okay…look…” Tony said, regarding each of his captors with a glance, a knowing nod. “What’s up with the spook shit? If you’re wiseguys or cartel, then I’m Barney the fucking Dinosaur. And if you’re hit men, then you’re the chattiest fucking assassins I’ve ever met. So what’s the deal? Level with me, huh?”

A commotion at the front door turned their collective attention away from Tony. The three quickly drew their guns. Tony’s heart thudded hard in his chest as his mind raced, trying to figure out who the hell these guys were and how to get himself out of here. He twisted his wrists and flexed his arms, trying to loosen the ropes, but they held fast.

There was the sound of something heavy slumping to the ground outside, then a distinct knock. One sharp rap, followed by three knocks. The agents relaxed, dropped their weapons.

The older guy approached the door, gun held out. “What waits at the center of the Labyrinth?”

A voice from outside. “He who shall not be named.”

“Riddles!” Tony grinned. “Hey, is this a private conversation, or can anybody get involved? Cause I got a riddle for you. What’s gonna happen to you fucks when I get loose? Anybody want to answer that fucking riddle?”

They ignored him. The older guy opened the front door and another similarly dressed agent entered the condo, hauling a maintenance worker inside. The door closed behind him. The newcomer dropped the unconscious maintenance worker to the floor and stood over him. “We almost had trouble.” He held up a handgun, a Desert Eagle with

a silencer. Tony had owned a weapon like that before, in his old life. Nice handgun.

The older guy nodded down at the maintenance worker. “Is he clean otherwise?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you bring beer?” Tony nodded at the newcomer. “Because I don’t think I’m gonna have enough for everybody.”

The agents glanced at each other. The newcomer frowned.

“Has he been like this all along?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “He hides his fear and uncertainty beneath a veneer of sarcasm and bravado.”

“What can I say, sweetheart. I grew up on Han Solo, avid Lee Roth, and Smokey and the fucking Bandit.” He turned to the newcomer. “What the fuck you bop the maintenance guy for? The man can’t even make a living painting the trim at this place without you guys knocking him out. What, you guys ATF or something? Some shit like that? Is that why you burst in here like this? Cause I got weapons? Makes no sense, but you’re too dumb to be anything else.”

“You know very well we’re not ATF,” the older man said.

“I don’t know shit.” Tony nodded at the maintenance worker. “If I was working this shitty job I’d carry a piece too. Never know what kind of shit bag’s gonna rob you of your week’s pay.”

Groaning, the man on the floor stirred. When he tried to sit up, his captor placed a foot on his chest and shoved him back to the carpet.

“Get off me!”

“You tell them, brother,” Tony cheered. “Don’t let these fuckers push you around. I’ve got them right where I want them.”

Without speaking, two of the intruders picked the maintenance worker up from the floor and forced him to sit in a chair across from Tony. Two kept their weapons pointed at him while the woman tied him up. The maintenance worker struggled, but Tony got the impression that the man was doing it to size up his opponents—probe their strengths and weaknesses—rather than to escape.

“So what’s next?” Tony asked. “We gonna play Uno or Monopoly or something? Or wait. I got it! You fuckers are into that role-playing shit, aren’t you? Roll D20 and determine how many times you suck my dick.”

Tony kept the banter up, but as he spoke, he eyed the maintenance worker intensely. The guy was no mere wrench monkey or lawn jockey. Tony recognized a kind of hardness in the captive’s expression. It was mirrored in Tony’s own. This guy was not who he claimed to be, and Tony was almost certain that he had killed before.

Baby-face grabbed a kitchen chair and slid it across the floor. Then he sat down, his face inches from Tony’s.

“Are you finished?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Calm. Almost bemused.

“I don’t know,” Tony admitted. “You tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you guys here to whack me? Because if so, I wish you’d get the fuck on with it.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Genova. We’re not here to kill you. We’re here because we need your help. We want to offer you a job.”

Tony blinked. “Is that so? Well, you sure have a funny way of asking for help. You always assault and tie up your job applicants?”

Baby-face’s expression became sad. “I apologize for that. It was a necessary precaution. We had to take certain measures to make sure you were protected.”

“Protected from what?”

“From us. Had you been tempted to use your firearm, or attack us in some other manner, we’d have had no choice but to defend ourselves. That could have ended badly—for all concerned. Believe me when I tell you that we don’t want to kill you, Mr. Genova. Indeed, you are one of the seven most important people in the world.”

“My mama always told me I was special.”

Baby-face smiled. “Your mother was right.”

Tony returned the smile. Then he spat in his captor’s face. Baby-face flinched as the wad of saliva splattered against his cheek and slowly rolled down to his chin, but his smile, although faltering, remained.

“Was that really necessary?” He grabbed a napkin from Tony’s kitchen table and wiped the offending fluid away.

“Let’s cut the happy feel good bullshit,” Tony said. “You motherfuckers come busting in here, knock me the fuck out with your Mr. Spock shit, tie me up in this fucking chair, kidnap some poor schmuck from outside, drop him in my crib, and then tell me that I’m special and this is all for my own good? As the brothers are prone to say—nigga, please.”

Baby-face opened his mouth to respond, but the older man interrupted.

“Tell him. We’re wasting time.”

“Not yet. We still—”

“We have no choice. Tell him.”

Baby-face turned around and pointed at the maintenance man. “What about
him
?”

“I’ll take care of him. You just get Genova prepared for what’s to come. We don’t have much time. The plane leaves in an hour and thirty minutes. We need to be on it.”

The older man grabbed the back of the maintenance man’s chair and tilted it toward him. Then he began to drag the captive across the floor toward the door. The maintenance man kicked and struggled against his bonds.

“Get your hands off me,” he shouted. “I know who you people are! Black Lodge. You’re Black fucking Lodge, right?”

The older man stopped, releasing the chair as if he’d been shocked. The other man—the one Tony’s age and build—gasped. The woman simply stared, clearly surprised.

“He’s got your goat,” Tony said. “I don’t know what the fuck any of it means, but he got you.”

“Get him out of here,” Baby-face said, his calm demeanor betrayed by the edge in his voice.

“No,” Tony said. “The lawn jockey stays. If what you’re saying is true—if you need me for some job—then he stays. Otherwise, I ain’t doing jack shit, and you can just kill me now.”

“I told you, Mr. Genova, we have no intention of killing you. And why are you worried about the welfare of this man, whom you don’t even know?”

“He senses a kindred spirit,” the woman said, moving to stand over Baby-face’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know who this maintenance man is, but he knows that they are the same. They both have blood on their hands. Since Mr. Genova views both himself and this other man as our captives, he’s hoping to keep the other man alive long enough so that the two of them can work together to effect an escape.”

“Wow,” Tony gasped. “Lady, you’re good. You should take that mind reading shit on the road. Get yourself on Oprah or something.”

“When you were twelve years old,” the woman said, “the neighborhood bully, one Max Delveccio, taunted and harassed a friend of yours. The friend’s name was Paul Novak. The harassment progressed to sexual harassment, and then rape. Delveccio’s cruelty forced your friend to run away from home. Paul was never seen again.”

“How did you—”

“I could have gotten that information from any number of sources,” the woman continued, “but what I
couldn’t
have known was this. You lured Max Delveccio to an old abandoned house, and then you killed him. He was the first person you ever murdered. You thought that if he went away, your friend would come back home again. You were sick after you did it. You stayed home from school for three days. Your mother believed you had the flu. You buried Delveccio’s body in the basement of the house. When you were sixteen, the house was torn down to make way for a county park. You were worried that someone would find the remains, but they never did. His bones lie there to this day. They whisper your name.”

Tony’s voice was barely audible. “I’ve never told anyone about that. Not even Vince. How the fuck do you know that?”

“I know everything about you, Mr. Genova.”

“Because you can read minds?”

She nodded. “How else would you explain what I just did?”

Tony shrugged. “So, what? You tell me about a murder I supposedly did back when I was a kid, and I’m supposed to be all impressed now? You don’t know shit.”

The woman was nonplussed. “I know more about you than you probably know yourself. Indeed, we all do.”

“We know about the dreams,” Baby-face said. “More importantly, we know why you have them.”

“What dreams?”

“The ones where you’re living different lives on different worlds. Worlds that have eerie similarities to this one, and yet are different. You and your partner, Vince, fighting zombies in Finland, for example. That’s been a recently recurring nightmare, has it not?”

“Big deal. So I watched
Dawn of the Dead
one too many times. How the fuck do you people know about this shit? Who are you?”

“We know because those aren’t just dreams, Mr. Genova. They are memories. Memories of different worlds. Memories that versions of you have experienced in alternate realities. You are a survivor of the Clicker invasion. On another world, perhaps there is a Tony Genova who dreams of battling Clickers, or who right now, at this very moment, is dreaming of being tied to that chair.”

“Dude, I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on, but can I have some? You people are tripping balls.”

“No,” the maintenance worker said, “they’re not. This is what they do. They specialize in all that occult mumbo jumbo—alternate realities, witchcraft, UFO’s, demons, all that stuff. They’re Black Lodge.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?” Tony asked. “Because