Dead Things (20 page)

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Kind of comes with the territory.”

She frowns. Like she’s not sure exactly what sort of territory that is. Whether she wants to be a part of it. I don’t blame her. I’m wondering the same thing myself.

“What happened back there?” she says.

Excellent question. Boudreau showing up is one thing. I always knew there was a possibility. But Griffin? Beverly Hills to San Pedro? On the 405? He showed up awful fast.

If we’d tripped an alarm he shouldn’t have been able to respond that fast unless he was close by. And what are the odds that he would just happen to be down near the docks with a cadre of thugs?

“Did you tell Alex where we were going?”

“Yeah, I—” She cocks her head, narrows her eyes. “I don’t think I like what you’re thinking.”

“How would Griffin know we were down there if someone hadn’t told him?”

“I thought we’d settled this.” There’s a tone in her voice I remember that screams at me to back off, but I can’t. I’m tired of people trying to kill me.

“Maybe you did. I didn’t. Somebody told Griffin I was in town, somebody told him I was at the warehouse. If not him, who?”

Vivian’s in my face faster than I can react and gives me a slap. “You sonofabitch,” she says, fire in her eyes. “You have no fucking idea who that man is or what he’s done. How dare you judge him?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” I say. I rub my jaw. Jesus, she’s got a hard hand. “I haven’t been here.”

“Exactly. You just up and bailed the second things got rough. You left us. You left me.”

“You know why I left.”

“Yeah, because you’re a fucking coward.” That stings worse than the slap and it must be showing on my face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “Did I hit a nerve? What, you can do dead people but god forbid you deal with live ones?”

“I left because it was safer for everyone.”

“No, you left because it was safer for you.”

“Lucy—”

“Tried to kill herself,” Vivian says. “Did Alex tell you that?”

“What?” Kill herself? “No. He didn’t say anything.”

“About five years ago. Took a bunch of Xanax, washed it down with a bottle of vodka. Alex found her. And it wasn’t a ‘cry for help’, either. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Went over on a whim.”

“Why?” I can’t process this. The thought just keeps sliding off my brain.

“Why? Jesus, are you really that stupid? Because her parents died. Because her only brother couldn’t handle the stress and up and bolted. Because she was afraid what was going to happen to her if anyone found out who she was. You made a choice. She had hers dumped on her. So, don’t you dare blame Alex for anything. He took on your responsibilities for you.”

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Don’t tell me he’s a saint,” I say. “We both know what he was like when I was around.”

“You’re really going to try to use that against him? The petty thieving? The short cons? Yeah, I remember them. And I remember how much it cost him. He turned things around. He takes care of people. His employees have a health plan for fuck sake. They get paid holidays. What have you done for anybody?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I say. “You have no idea the shit I deal with. It’s a wonder I’m still alive. You know fuck all about me.”

“I know enough. Alex might have flaws, but he’s not a killer.”

“Well, ya got me there. You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t have left. Because then I’d be dead and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“God, you are such an asshole.”

“Yeah, not like saintly fucking Alex. Too bad you didn’t figure that out then, huh? Could have hooked up with him before I left.”

“What makes you think I didn’t?”

That stops me. She’s staring at me with a defiance I’d forgotten about. I can feel myself deflate and suddenly I don’t have the stomach for this, anymore. I remember the fights we had, the screaming matches. Funny, I can’t remember any of the good times.

She’s right. I am a coward. This is all my fault. And I’m tired of fighting. Maybe that’s another reason I left. I push past her into the hallway. She yells at my back but I don’t pay attention to her. I’ve got nothing to say.

Chapter 19

The more I think about it the more I realize she’s right. I am an asshole. What of it? I did what I had to do. Sure as shit not what I wanted to do. She works with the living, I work with the dead. We’re on opposite ends of the spectrum. No wonder we had so many fights.

I take the elevator downstairs, go out through the ER entrance. The cold outside makes me realize how stuffy and claustrophobic it had been in the hospital. I take a deep breath. It’s car exhaust and Southland smog but it’s cold and familiar. I walk in between a couple of ambulances where it’s a little darker. Close my eyes, let the cold air clear my mind.

“Hey, buddy,” someone says behind me. “Got a light?”

I catch a whiff of smoke, something burnt. I turn to see a soot-smudged face, a shirt with blackened cuffs and a type of gun I’ve been seeing a little too much of the last couple days.

The taser goes off but I’m ready this time. The darts shoot forward but I’m able to throw out a quick burst of energy myself that shorts them out and stops them in their tracks.

“I’m gonna shove that thing so far up your ass you’re gonna sneeze lightning bolts,” I say. Too bad I don’t figure out he’s just the diversion until somebody else pistol-whips me from behind and I go down.

—

“This is getting to be a habit,” Griffin says. “I hope there’s been no permanent damage. Concussions can be nasty.”

“I got a hard head,” I say. But not, apparently a hard nose. I must have smacked it when I hit the pavement. At this rate I’m going to run out of cartilage.

Griffin’s blurry, it’s too goddamn bright in here and I can’t move. When my vision clears I figure out they’ve got me in one of the ambulances strapped to a gurney. Two other guys besides Griffin with guns trained at my head. The driver hits a pothole and my head snaps back. Pain starbursts through my skull.

“Please be careful, Alonso,” Griffin says. “Apologies. He’s not a very good driver.”

“Got that.” I close my eyes. My head’s in agony. “Hey, if you’re gonna kill me, can you just get it over with? I’m getting tired of this shit.”

“Not yet. I’ve got some questions.”

“Dude, I can barely remember my own name.”

“That elemental in the warehouse. It wasn’t yours. It was trying to kill you.”

“And they said you were stupid.” I’m really not in the mood for this. I wish he’d just get it over with and put a bullet in my head or something.

“Who summoned it?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Boudreau’s back, then, is he?”

“More or less. I went there to see if I could dig him up. Got a little more than I expected.”

“So, Henry’s little spell actually worked,” he says. “I’m impressed. How’d you get rid of him?”

My visions blurs again. I forget where I am for a second. I think maybe I’ve gotten a few too many hits to the noggin lately. “Banishing spell. Wasn’t easy.” I close my eyes again, start to drift. Jerk awake from a sharp slap. Goddammit.

“So, he’s not gone permanently?”

“Fuck no.” Alonso hits another pothole. Takes me a second to clear my head. “He’ll be back.” A thought occurs to me and I get lost in being impressed with myself for a second. I really wasn’t sure that was ever going to happen again.

“He’s come after you, hasn’t he?” I say.

“I think so. Something has. I’ve been having random curses thrown my way. Weak. Annoyances, really. But they’ve been getting stronger.”

“Might want to watch out for the next one.”

Griffin doesn’t say anything. Looks like he’s thinking pretty hard so I leave him to it and try to go back to sleep.

“No,” he says. His voice jerks me awake. “I think you’re going to need to watch out for the next one. He knows you’re here now. I can’t imagine he’s going to do much else for a while but figure out how to kill you. He was a little obsessive that way.”

“You don’t kill me, you let him kill me,” I say. “Nice plan.”

“As long as you’re alive his attention’s going to be focused on you. You’re the best distraction I could hope for.” He taps on the wall behind him. “Alonso, pull over when it’s convenient.”

He turns his attention back to me. “Of course, you could always kill him, instead.”

“On my to-do list.”

“Thought as much.” The car slows, pulls over to the curb. One of Griffin’s men undoes the straps, the other keeps his gun on me.

“Out you go,” Griffin says.

“Where the hell am I?”

“I have no idea. I’m sure you’ll find your way back to that nice little hotel on Lankershim you’re staying at just fine.” Great. He knows about the hotel. Now I’ll have to move again.

One of his men hauls me up, throws me out the back of the ambulance. I hit the curb and roll. Try to stand up, fall on my ass.

“Good night, Mister Carter,” Griffin says. “And stay alive a little bit longer, if you don’t mind.”

—

I find an all night convenience store with a payphone, call a cab. Somewhere in today’s mess I’ve lost the cellphone Alex gave me. This is why I can’t have nice things.

I buy a bottle of cheap tequila and a bag of frozen peas. I’ve got a lump on the back of my skull the size and consistency of a hard-boiled egg. I sit on the curb and wait for my ride with the peas shoved against my scalp. The cold is helping a little. Every passing light isn’t a blinding stab in the eyes. My thoughts are clearing up.

There’s something about what Griffin said that’s not fitting right. Now that Boudreau knows I’m in town I’m going to be his favorite target.

That’s not making sense, but I can’t place why. My thoughts are still a mess. I shake my head, hoping that will help, but all it does is make me nauseous and dizzy. I don’t think my nose is broken, but it hurts like hell. My left hand is throbbing under the bandages and every cut, scrape and bruise is screaming like third-graders at a birthday party.

I’m going to have to get a new room. Somewhere Alex doesn’t know about. To be safe I don’t think I should tell Vivian or Tabitha about it, either. Just pack my stuff and go. Which should take all of five minutes. I’ve got one bag in the room with a change of clothes in it and a toothbrush. Everything else was in the Eldorado.

That’s another problem I don’t know how to begin to tackle. How the hell am I going to get my car back? I’m not sure I could even find the spot where we abandoned it.

I think about what I said to Vivian back at the hospital and wonder if maybe I was right. I should have stayed. I’d be dead now, sure, but what good am I now? The fuck kind of wasted life have I led, anyway?

My cab pulls up. Guy sticks his head out of the window. Yells at me asking if I called the cab. I don’t say anything, just slide into the backseat. Cabbie’s license says his name’s Sam Something-I-Can’t-Pronounce. Guy needs some more vowels.

“Where to?”

I start to tell him to take me back to my hotel, but I catch something out of the corner of my eye. I’m so out of it I’m not paying near enough attention. There’s someone in the car with me, and he’s not alive.

“Where to?” the driver repeats, clearly annoyed.

“Studio City. I’ll tell you when we’re closer.”

“You got cash? Not taking you that far you don’t got cash.” I slip him a fifty, not paying much attention. He looks at it, glares at me in the rearview mirror. Sniffs the bill. Who the hell smells money?

The ghost was young when he died, maybe twenty years old. Thin to the point of emaciated. Leather jacket with a couple too many holes. Tight, tight jeans, close cropped hair. You see guys like him up around Gower at two in the morning selling their asses for cash, drugs, a place to sleep.

He’d look perfectly normal if it weren’t for the long, ragged gash that starts from under his right jaw and zips down to his left hip. Deep, too. Intestines are poking out. Hands are covered in blood, presumably his own, and it spatters up into his face.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Sam,” says the cabbie. “It’s on the license.”

“Not talking to you.” I can see him roll his eyes in the rearview, mutter something about picking up crazies.

The boy looks at me, surprised. “You can see me?” His voice is like leaves on the wind. When I nod his eyes grow bigger. “I’m . . . I don’t remember.”

“It’ll come to you,” I say. “Take your time.” The back seat is pretty clean. New upholstery. The rest of the car looks like shit, though.

“Nice cab,” I say to the driver.

“You talking to me now?”

“I am this time. You get the back reupholstered recently?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, brow furrowing. “Few months ago. No, a year. Two years.” I go with his first answer. Too nice for even a year with all the pukers and smokers this guy must see on a daily basis. Probably ripped out the seats, reported them stolen.

“Nice. Private cab, right? Nobody else drives it?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering. Take pretty good care of your stuff.”

“Thanks. I guess.” He’s not sure what the hell I’m babbling about. And I’m okay with that. He will soon enough. I turn back to the boy. He’s got his face screwed up trying to remember his name. When he was killed he could have probably told me his social security number, address and shoe size.

“Brett,” he says finally.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. I ignore the cabbie’s grunt. “How long’s it been?”

“I’m not sure. Not long. I think.” He looks over at the cabbie, his eyes like slits. “He did this. When I got into his cab. Picked me up. Blew him and the fucker didn’t pay.” He puts a hand to the gash slicing down his body. “Killed me instead.”

He’s got a lost look in his eyes. They were blue, I think. Hard to tell now that he’s faded so much and I can see the car door through him. Just another Haunt. And before that just another runaway, hustler, addict, fucktoy for whoever could pay him.