Killing Pretty (21 page)

Vincent lies down on his back in the middle of the circle and rubs his chest. He points at the back wall.

“It was here. I woke up facing that way.”

There's a symbol painted on the back wall.

“Do you recognize it?” says Julie.

“No.”

Candy takes out a pocket camera and snaps a few pictures. She shoots a few more of the circle. Vincent gets up and dusts himself off. Julie points to a spot near the door. A White Light Legion emblem. Candy shoots it.

I look at Julie.

“What the hell is this place?”

“I told you. Murphy Ranch,” says Candy. “Hitler's American love shack. Sort of.”

I look from her to Julie. Julie looks around appraisingly.

“She's right. Remember the Silver Legion, the precursor to the White Lights? Like them, the compound was started around the same time they did. It cost four million dollars. That's in 1930s dollars, and was entirely financed by one ­couple: Winona and Norman Stephens.”

“A ­couple of Silver Legion groupies,” says Candy. “This is just one building. The whole compound covered over fifty acres and had its own water system, a diesel generator for power, and a bomb shelter.”

“Everything a self-­sustaining Nazi community would need to ride out the war,” says Julie.

“I guess history didn't go their way. What happened to the place?”

“It was raided by local police and shut down in '41,” Candy says. “And that was the end of der Führer's Hollywood penthouse.”

I look at the walls and floor, hoping to find a clue, an explanation for Vincent and this place.

“You think the White Lights did the ritual to grab Death and stick him in a body. Why? What do they get out of it?”

“That's what we need to find out,” says Julie. “Edison Elijah McCarthy spent his life studying the supernatural and higher states of consciousness. If we could find him, we'd know.”

I go over to the entrance, take out a cigarette, and light it. No one objects this time.

“He'd be an old man by now.”

“Yes,” Julie says. “An old man with a powerful and ruthless organization behind him.”

“A bunch of assholes, if you ask me,” says Candy. “We shouldn't have let that bunch on Wonderland get away.”

She's right. And if I'd had my gun the other night, we would have had them then too.

“We'll get 'em next time, cowgirl.”

Vincent looks around.

“If we found the right person and brought them here, could they put me back where I belong?”

“Probably,” I say. “The trick is finding the right one. My money is still on Tamerlan.”

Julie looks at me.

“I'm not saying he's a goose-­stepper. I'm saying he likes money. He'd do the ritual, take the cash, and never ask a single question.”

“Has Brigitte reported anything yet?” says Candy.

“We're meeting tomorrow,” Julie says. “I'll know more then.”

“Can we come along?” says Candy.

“I was going to suggest it.”

“You'll see,” I say.

“I prefer not to jump to conclusions,” says Julie.

Over the stink of the Malediction, I smell something else. Something sweeter. I drop the smoke and crush it out with my boot. Step to the side of the door. A few seconds later, a kid wanders in smoking a blunt the size of a chimichanga.

He has long, dirty blond hair halfway down his back. He's wearing battered boots, a thrift-­store leather jacket covered in patches for different metal bands, and a Pantera T-­shirt.

He's staring at his feet on the way in and doesn't spot Candy and Julie until he stops to knock some ash off his joint. He steps back when he sees them, then pulls his shit together.

“How's it hanging, ladies?”

Then he sees Vincent.

The kid yells “Fuck!” and bolts for the door. I step in his way with the Colt in my hand. He pulls up short and puts his hands over his head. Looks back over his shoulder.

He's about twenty. His red eyes are not those of an Einstein. He has a scraggly mustache and a faint scattering of acne scars on one cheek. He looks from me to Vincent and back again.

“Okay, Megadeth, tell me what you see.”

“That guy over there,” he whispers like no one else can hear.

I take a step toward the kid.

“I know. They cut his heart out. You were one of the assholes partying here that night, weren't you? Did you see what happened?”

He nods.

“Part of it.”

“Want to elaborate?”

“Mostly it was over. They took his heart and put it in some kind of jar with a bunch of writing on it, then stuck the knife back in his chest. After that, they took the other guy and left.”

“What other guy?” says Julie.

The kid stares at her, then Vincent.

I come up behind him and drape an arm over his shoulder.

“What's your name, kid?”

“Varg.”

“Sure it is. Varg, that lady is my boss. If you don't answer her, I'll be obligated to stir-­fry your balls for her pet piranhas.”

Varg looks over at where he dropped his joint. He's either regretting being high or wishing he was a lot higher. He moves his head in two jerking nods.

“Okay.”

He points at Vincent.

“But keep him away from me.”

I wave Vincent off. “Why don't you grab some wall?”

He goes to the back of the room and stands in the corner watching us.

“Time to answer the lady, Varg. What other guy did you see?”

“The other stiff. They wrapped him up with the heart and took him away. They were a lot nicer to him than to that guy,” he says, nodding his chin at Vincent.

“What did the other ­people look like?” says Julie.

“I don't know. I couldn't see too good. They had some flashlights is all. I didn't get a look at their faces. Except for the chick.”

“What chick?” says Candy. “What did she look like?”

“She was hot. Like you,” he says, trying to be charming.

Candy raises her eyebrows. “What did you fucking say?”

Varg squirms. I tighten my arm across his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says. “But, I mean, she really was hot. A blonde. Pretty like a model.”

“Wow. It's like she's here with us right now,” says Candy. “What else did she look like?”

“I don't know. One of the dudes called her Sigrun.”

“That's a funny name,” I say. “Are you sure you heard it right?”

“I thought it was funny too. But the dude said it again. Sigrun.”

“Tell us about the other body,” says Julie. “They killed two ­people that night?”

Varg shrugs.

“I don't know. But they both looked dead to me.”

He whispers to me as he stares at Vincent. “How's he walking around?”

“Well, Varg, that's the Angel of Death. Want to meet him?”

“No way.”

“Smart boy.”

“Which way did they go when they left?” says Candy.

He points outside opposite of the way we came.

I say, “Was one of the men here that night dressed like a used car salesman?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, flashy. Not normal flashy like in a magazine. Old flashy like you'd see on
Starsky & Hutch
.”

“Yeah, I know them. But no. I didn't see anyone like that. They were all wearing robes or some shit. I couldn't see anyone's regular clothes.”

“You took the knife from his chest,” says Julie, pointing to Vincent. “Why?”

“Did you see it? It was cool.”

“And it came out of a real live dead guy, right? Your friends would love that.”

Varg nods.

“None of those pussies would touch it. But I did.”

“Thanks, Varg,” I say. “If you hadn't done that, Vincent over there might not have woken up.”

“I thought you said he was the Angel of Death.”

“He is.”

“The Angel of Death's name is Vincent?”

“Your name sounds like a dog fart, Varg, so don't get pushy.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyone have any other questions for Lemmy?”

Candy comes over.

“Let me see your driver's license.”

Varg gets out his wallet and gives her the license.

She photographs it, then reads it over.

“Now we know your real name, Danny, and where you live. Don't tell anyone you talked to us and don't try to run away or we'll send Vincent after you.”

I feel Varg tense.

“I won't. Can I have my license back?”

Candy hands it to him.

Varg puts his wallet away. He looks at me.

“You know what this place is, right?”

“Yeah. Hitler's bachelor pad. What of it?”

“Well, some of the ­people, including Sigrun, they were speaking German.”

“Too bad. I don't suppose you're bilingual, Varg.”

“Yeah. I am. My grandma's from Düsseldorf. That's why I remember what they said.”

Julie comes over.

“What did they say?”

“When they were wrapping the one guy up, the one they liked, one of them said, ‘Get wormwood' or ‘Get the wormwood.' I figured they were going to go and get high.”

I'm guessing pretty much everything means getting high to Varg. I'm surprised he remembered as much as he did. If I let Vincent loose on him, I bet he'd remember all the state capitals and the names of Santa's reindeers, but Julie would never let me do that.

“We done here?” I say to Julie.

“Yes. Let him go,” she says.

I take my arm from Varg's shoulder.

“You're free to go. We're releasing you back into the wild.”

“For real?”

“Scoot, Varg.”

He hesitates.

“Can I have my weed back?”

The joint is still lying where he dropped it.

“Sure.”

Varg runs over, scoops the joint into his pocket, heads for the entrance. He stops and points back at Vincent.

“That guy's a freak, man.”

“It's not smart to be mean to Death. He has a long memory.”

“That asshole's not Death,” says Varg. “The other guy is. That's what the blond chick said.
Er ist der Todeskö
nig
. ‘He is the death king.' ”

I turn to him.

“Why didn't you mention that before?”

“ 'Cause fuck you, that's why,” says Varg. He holds up his hands, flipping us double birds, and runs off into the trees.

Candy starts after him.

“Let him go,” says Julie. “We're not going to get anything more out of a frightened stoner right now. Besides, we can find him if we need more later.”

Vincent is by the entrance, staring in the direction where Varg ran. He goes down the stairs and follows the kid's trail. We follow him a few yards past more buildings. Beyond a stand of thirsty trees is a set of steep concrete stairs going a ­couple of hundred feet, all the way up the canyon wall. Varg is already a quarter of the way up.

“That's the way I left,” says Vincent. “I remember climbing and climbing.”

I look at him. Vincent isn't a big guy. I try to imagine anyone climbing all those steps with a hole the size of a shotgun blast in their chest. I couldn't do it. But this scrawny bastard did. And fucked up as he was, he tracked me down all the way in Hollywood. Vincent has more brains and bigger balls than I imagined. Damn. Now I actually want to help the prick. But it's nice that I'm being paid to do it.

I wave a bee away from my face. Goddamn nature. All it wants to do is hitch a ride, kill you, or sting you. Sometimes all at once.

“Are we done here?” I say to Julie. “I need a drink and a tick bath.”

“Yes. We're done.”

She keeps looking at Varg and the stairs. I start back the way we came.

“If you want to go after him, be my guest, but I'm not climbing that. Fire me if you want, but I'm going this way and cranking the air conditioner in the Crown Vic all the way to Ice Age.”

Julie nods.

“Let's head back,” she says, coming after me.

As we walk, she turns to me.

“Good job back there, Stark. You were menacing, but didn't try to shoot anyone. A big step up for you.”

“Thanks. I'm happy to just be part of the team.”

“That's why it pains me to tell you.”

“What?”

“The air-­conditioning in the Crown Vic doesn't work.”

I really hate this job.

C
ANDY AND
I
go to Bamboo House for a few drinks after work and have a ­couple of more at home. Kasabian is binge-­watching
Mulholland Drive,
transfixed by Naomi Watts's cheekbones. Vincent went to his room after we got back from Murphy Ranch and I haven't seen him since. My guess is he popped a ­couple of pills and passed out. Can't say I blame him. Still, I might have to steal the pill bottle from him sometime when he's not looking.

I fall asleep early, still bruised and battered by my encounter with trees and grass. Now I remember why I don't like to leave Hollywood. The closest thing to nature we have here are the tofu joints out past La Brea Avenue, and I can get over the trauma of seeing them with a plate of
carnitas
and frijoles.

In my dreams, I'm back at Murphy Ranch lying, like Vincent, in the bloody center of the circle. When Mason Faim sent me to Hell, it was through a magic circle. I use them all the time when I'm doing high-­level hoodoo.

My life is full of circles. For all the batshit craziness of my first trip back from Hell—­the Drifters, ghosts, ghouls, cops, Hellions, and gods—­it was really about finally getting clear of Mason. Now Mason is dead for good, a sacrifice to a mob of angry old deities. Maybe I'm starting a new circle. If this is the beginning, I'm not sure I want to see where it ends.

I used to dream about being back in the arena in Hell. Now I dream about being stuck in traffic in the Crown Vic, my new Hell on Earth. Even when I was a Hellion slave, I never felt as trapped as I do now that I've lost the Room of Thirteen Doors. I keep trying to find angles. Ways to get it back. Ways to convince myself that it's okay to open it and go inside. That another universe won't rush out to devour this one, and that the old gods, the Angra Om Ya, are dead and gone forever. But I know it's not going to happen. I can't ever open the door again. The Room is gone for good. But I can't live without it. I can't stay planted on the ground like a goddamn beet farmer, shuffling my way through the dirt and mud forever. There has to be an angle I haven't figured out yet. Something I can steal or buy or trade for what will let me shadow-­walk again. The price will be high, but I'll pay it. I need to know I can walk the universe again and that, in the end, there's one safe refuge that's mine and mine alone. Even Candy would be safe and she could wear her own face again. But I don't even know where to begin looking. Well, I do. But I don't want to go there. There are parts of L.A. stained enough with blood, bile, and misery that even I don't want to deal with them.