Soul Song (3 page)

Don’t be a good Samaritan. Backfires every time.

“Wait,” said Alice, holding out her hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” Kit lied. “You’re the one who’s in trouble.”

Alice and the old man shared a look. “What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be murdered,” Kit said, and the words slipped out so easily she might as well have been speaking of dessert or the weather. Men and women passing her just at that moment did a double-take.

“Please explain,” said the old man, glancing again at Alice. He looked quite pale. Kit’s vision wavered. She saw blood on his chest. His eyes rolling up in his head.

She looked away, trying not to be sick. Too much, too fast, too strange. These strangers—Alice and her Uncle John—were in a great deal of trouble. More than Kit could handle. Not without making herself a target as well. But that did not stop her from forcing her gaze back to the old man’s face, searching for more, another clue. He stared back, a furrow between his eyes, one more wrinkle of consternation in a forehead already full of worry. Kit thought she might like him, given the chance. Dapper, clean. Old school. He reminded her of Tennessee.

“You need to be careful,” she whispered, unable to help herself. “Both of you, so careful.”

Alice took a step toward her. Kit did not retreat. She held herself strong, fiddle case slung tight against her back like a shield. A thread of music curled through her head, a slippery sword. She watched Alice open her mouth to speak.

Kit heard a soft thud. It sent a chill through her, though she could not place the sound. A moment later, though, the old man stumbled backward, clutching his chest. He stared at himself—they all three stared—

I and Kit watched in horror and dread as a red stain bloomed against his crisp white shirt. She almost did not believe it, almost wasted precious moments telling herself it was merely a vision, the painted future.

But then people began to push and run, screaming, and she knew it was real. The future had arrived.

The old man collapsed. Alice fell to her knees, scrabbling at his chest, cradling the man’s face. He did not respond to her touch. Kit knew he would not. She had already seen him die once before, and a gunshot wound to the heart did not allow for good-byes or last words. Neither did a knife in the eye.

There was a humming in her ears; fiddle strings, rising into a scream. Kit gritted her teeth and grabbed Alice’s upper arm, yanking hard, hauling the woman to her feet. No time for second thoughts or regrets, no time for questions. She looked into Alice’s stricken eyes and said, “You have to run now.”

“We both do,” Alice breathed, and as Kit stared, stunned, the young woman kicked off her heels and gave the old man one last look so torn and hurt and hard, Kit felt her own throat thicken with some foreign grief that felt too much at home in her heart.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled; she did not turn to look, but instead pulled on Alice’s arm. The woman did not resist. She took Kit’s hand and the two of them dodged into the milling, frightened crowd. Kit felt eyes watch them; she imagined herself at the center of a crosshairs.

Not your time,
she told herself.
Not now.

But the woman beside her was another matter entirely. It might be that her death was not scheduled for a lifetime yet, but, given what had just happened to the old man, better safe than sorry. Not that Kit could fight fate. Not that anyone could.

The hard shell of the fiddle case banged against her back. Kit had the absurd desire to play—could even hear the notes inside her head, wicked and pure. She ran to the music—a whirlygig—searching for someplace safe, well-lit, crowded. But the stores had closed, and it seemed that just when she needed a coffee shop, all of them had disappeared. Just ahead, though, she glimpsed the stone façade of her hotel. Perfect.

Kit heard sirens. Fast response. Two police cruisers sped through a distant intersection on her left; another appeared just ahead and stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, red and blue flashing. Kit slowed, Alice silently mirroring her. The two women shared a quick look but kept moving.

A police officer stepped out of the cruiser: a woman, small and trim, with hard dark eyes and a short bob of black hair that swished around her chin. She looked directly at Kit and Alice. There were no spare glances for any other pedestrians, no question in her gaze, just a clear, unwavering focus that made Kit feel like she was barreling one hundred miles an hour toward a flat stone wall. Kit nudged Alice with her elbow and the two began to turn down an alley that opened up on their right.

The cop took a quick step and touched her gun. “Stay where you are,” she said loudly. “Don’t move.”

Every pedestrian in the police officer’s vicinity froze, including Kit and Alice. Pure law-abiding habit, though every instinct screamed at Kit to run. Alice swayed toward the alley. Her face was flushed, her eyes red-rimmed, bright. But there was a hard set to her mouth and a spring to her posture that made Kit think she was just as ready to scuttle. “You know what this is about,” Kit murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said. “You were only trying to help.”

The cop moved closer. Her gun was out, trained on Kit. Everyone else around them began to move again, sidling away, whispering and staring. Kit wondered, absently, if anyone recognized her.

Not that there was time. Alice grabbed Kit’s hand and, in a surprising show of strength, yanked her down the alley in a flat-out run. Kit tried to pull back, but Alice would not let go; her grip was painful, fingers like little iron rods. Kit heard a shout behind them, the sound of shoes slapping pavement. Her shoulder blades tickled. She was a perfect target.

Her breath whistled. She was in such deep shit. Running from the cops—even if it felt right—was a terrible thing to do.

The alley was a glorified garbage dump and drug depot; empty bleach bottles and used syringes covered the ground, as well as broken glass. Alice hissed but kept going. Kit glanced back and saw the cop standing, legs apart, gun raised.

“Crap,” she muttered.

A sharp bang echoed through the alley. Alice cried out and fell to the ground. Kit went down with her, still unable to free her hand. She scraped her knees, felt the burn race through her body. She wanted to scream, wanted to keep running; an allegro howled on the back of her tongue, her fiddle wailing in her mind.

Alice’s grip finally loosened, but Kit did not run.

The other woman was bleeding from her leg. She tried to stand, ended up falling again.

“Go,” she hissed, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Please, go.”

But it was too late. The police officer was there. Kit saw flashing lights at the end of the alley. Headlights blinded her—almost as much as the gleam of white teeth as the female cop smiled.

“End of the road,” she said, and raised her gun. Kit stiffened, but no shots were fired. Instead; the weapon came down hard against her head. Pain burst through her skull, stunning her—but not enough to render her unconscious. Unfortunately. Kit tried to move, but her body would not work properly. All she could do was crawl, her cheek pressed against the cold, wet cement as she pushed through filth. She did not care. Her head hurt. She needed to get away.

She heard another voice—a man’s, low and gruff. She could not see him; the headlights still blinded her. Alice cried out again, fought; the sound of flesh being hit made Kit flinch. A car door opened, slammed—Kit kept crawling—and then a hand grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so hard she choked.

“This one?” rumbled a harsh male voice.

“Take her. She could cause problems.”

“Don’t know how,” muttered the man, but Kit found herself slung into a pair of meaty arms. She tried to fight, but all she managed to do was throw up. Nothing was produced except bile, but it earned her another tap on the head. She was thrust into the backseat of the police cruiser—landed hard on Alice, who lay very still against the opposite door. Kit felt Alice’s chest rise and fall. Still alive, then. For now.

“Bitch got my shirt wet,” growled the man climbing into the front seat. A police officer, Kit noted. Or at least he wore the uniform. The female cop climbed in on the other side. Her hair was mussed. She was breathing hard. “Docks first,” she ordered.

Kit’s fiddle case pressed against her back. She tried to pay attention, to memorize the faces of the cops, but there was an axe blade pounding on her skull and her vision kept fading with the passing streetlights. Her eyelids felt heavy, too.

This is a kidnapping, not an arrest,
Kit told herself, trying to stay conscious.
They’re going to kill you.

Marked. Death and fate. No turning back. She reached into her shirt and grabbed the gris-gris, feeling the contents in the little leather pouch roll against her palm. Music filled her mind—
T’Aimse ‘Im Chodladh
— and she hummed the Celtic tune beneath her breath, centering herself, slowing the pounding of her heart. The pain lessened. Her vision strengthened.

There was no handle on the door beside Kit, and she was separated from the front by wire. All she could do was sit and wait. The city changed; away from the downtown core the buildings grew older, rougher. Kit saw more homeless people curled on the street, some of whom turned away when they saw the police cruiser.
Good idea,
Kit thought.
Wish I were there with you.

In the distance, Kit saw a cruise ship. She licked her lips and said, “You’re not really cops, are you?”

The woman shot her an amused look. “Of course we are. You think we would run around in these uniforms, in this car, if we weren’t? Cops know their own. A fake wouldn’t last long in this city.”

Fake enough,
Kit thought. “So, what’s going on, then? Why do you want this woman?”

“It’s not us who wants her,” rumbled the man, but the woman tapped his shoulder and he clamped his mouth shut.

“No more questions,” she said, glancing back at Kit. “You don’t need the answers.”

“I’ll be missed,” Kit said. “I’m well known. You could ransom me. I don’t suppose you make much money as cops.”

The man twitched, but the woman stayed cool, showing no emotion. “We’re getting paid.”

“I’m worth millions,” Kit replied. “Worth more alive, that’s for sure.”

This time, the man glanced into his rearview mirror. Kit met his gaze, unblinking. Again the woman tapped his shoulder. She also removed her gun from its holster and clicked off the safety.

“The wire is wide enough for the muzzle of this gun,” she said coolly. “I will shoot you if you do not shut up.”

“No, you won’t,” Kit said, thinking fast, trying to sound calm. “Too much blood to clean, too much risk the bullet will pass through me and damage the car. You want this job to go easy. Without anyone finding out what you’re doing.”

The woman smiled. “Trust me. I think we can come up with a good cover story. Benefit of the doubt, and all that.”

Kit gritted her teeth. “Fine. You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well keep me alive long enough to get some extra money for it.”

“Jess,” muttered the man. “We could do it. No one would be the wiser.”

“Fuck you,” replied the woman, glancing at him. “We’re doing this by the numbers.”

“Which numbers?” Kit struggled to hide her desperation. “You really care what anyone tells you to do?”

“You care or you die,” said the woman, and she put away her gun. “Seems my partner here has forgotten that.”

“No,” he mumbled. “But the money—”

“Shut up,” the woman said, sounding weary. “And slow down. You’re going to miss the street.”

The man tapped on the brakes and swung a hard right. Alice slid across the seat into Kit’s lap. She made no sound, but her hand twitched. Maybe she wasn’t unconscious after all. Kit pushed her up, smelling blood. Alice’s leg. Those cops were going to have to do some cleaning tonight, after all.

Something small pressed into Kit’s hand. It felt like a business card. Holding her breath, watching the cops watch the road, she slid it carefully into her coat pocket. No reaction up front. She glanced down at Alice, and found the blonde’s face still slack, eyes shut, a touch of drool at the corner of her mouth. Girl deserved an Oscar.

Between the buildings ahead, Kit glimpsed orange cranes, shipping containers. Far on the right, two cruise ships loomed, and on her left, a long, dark freighter. There was very little security, just a chain link fence that stood wide open, without a guard. Some lights, but only at the entrance.

Her captors did not seem at all concerned about being seen. The police cruiser drove into the shipping yard without slowing, taking another hard turn around a mountain of stacked orange containers, and then another, weaving a path through the maze toward the sea. Near the edge of the immense dock platform, Kit saw men standing around smoking. The cruiser pulled up beside them, and the female officer rolled down her window.

Only one of the men drew near. He was big and wide, with a shaved head and mean eyes. Despite the cool air, his shirt was partially unbuttoned. He wore no coat, which made it easy to see the tattoo covering the base of his throat and upper chest. In the poor light, it resembled a woman with her legs spread.

He peered into the backseat at Kit. “Something we can do for you, Officer Yu?”