I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

*

So, this is the mighty ‘Boone’ then? He doesn’t look the least bit frightening, not stretched out on the rack like that.

You must admit he’s an amazing physical specimen.

Must I?

Look at him. His build, like a young Adonis…

Please. And couldn’t you have put more clothes on him?

What’s the matter—jealous?

Of him? Definitely not.

Don’t laugh. How fast he’s healed. Not so long ago, he was on death’s door.

Oh, there’s something wrong with this one, that’s for certain. Better he had been left to die.

Quiet. He’ll hear you. No, not him. Him.

I’m entitled to my opinion.

Yes, you are. But sometimes it’s best to keep it to oneself. My, I wonder how he tastes.

His blood is what killed Kreshnik. Or have you forgotten?

I know, I know. Forbidden fruit. Doesn’t it excite you though, even in the slightest?

Not in the least.

Look at the size of his—

Oh enough already! He’ll regain consciousness soon.

The moment he stirs, we’ll summon the Dark Lord.

And hopefully Colson will convince him before that. Best he changes his mind, dispatches this one before he wakes.

No, I think he has plans for this one, Rainford does.

Tuesday

13 October 1998

1.

9:50 A.M.

(Central European Summer Time)

Amid the bustle of mid-morning, of men and women hurrying to-and-fro on foot and bicycle, a man sat alone at a table of an outdoor café.

It was funny, Jay thought, the things that were expensive over here versus the things that were expensive back in the States. A glass of orange juice, for example, cost a lot more here than at a diner where he came from. Not that money was ever going to be a real concern again; they had all they’d ever need.

On the table in front of him were his cigarettes, an ash tray, and a cup of coffee. He would have liked to have had a little something for his girl when she arrived, but he didn’t. He’d even walked by the flower market on his way over this morning, seeing what they had for sale. It’d been kind of early when he’d passed through, a lot of the vendors were still setting up. The season was passing, and each day there were fewer fresh flowers to choose from, more wooden tulips and that sort of thing. Jay wondered if the people who lived in this city all their lives had wooden tulips at home. If maybe those were just for the tourists.

He smoked one of his cigarettes, sipping at his coffee between drags. Jay liked coffee here in Europe. To him, it was almost as strong as Espresso back home. He wondered if maybe it was just this place or if all the coffee on the continent was this way.

Home. What did that word even mean anymore? Born in Guatemala, Jay had spent most of his life in New York City. He thought of home as anywhere his woman was. He was five and a half feet tall and dark skinned, sporting a Caesar haircut. Maybe, he thought, he stuck out just a little bit, but not too much. His girl more so, definitely.

He’d found the Europeans by and large a polite bunch. This was an international city and they were used to a variety of people, wouldn’t stare. He and Tisiphy were getting along in their new surroundings just fine. She would fit in wherever she went. Most of the people here spoke enough English that he got by alright.

He glanced at his watch. It’d be the middle of the night back home.

Jay exhaled, tapping his ashes into the tray on the table. Everybody seemed to smoke over here. What was it Boone had said to him, about his choice of smokes, Can’t you at least smoke a man’s cigarette?

Friggin’ Boone.

Mierda.

The problem with Boone, he didn’t respect the game. That’s what Jay had told Hamilton and Maddy. He wondered where those guys were now, how they were doing. Jay hoped they were well. Boone he could really care less about.

Maybe he’d give Ham or Maddy a call one of these days, but not yet. He was here in Europe with his woman. The men who had hurt her had paid, got what they’d deserved, and it was over. They could relax now. Sure, they wouldn’t be welcomed on the east coast, but why ever set foot there again? Nobody back there knew where they were, and the people here didn’t know who they were. They could put it all behind them, get on with their lives.

She’d been all over the world. He had not. Jay looked forward to travelling with her, to seeing what the globe had to offer. Maybe one day they’d return to his village in Central America. Jay wondered if there was anyone left there he’d remember. He barely remembered the place himself.

They’d been coming to this café for a few weeks steady and were known to the wait staff, who gave them smiles, happy for their love, awestruck by her beauty. Only Jay had ever seen Tisiphy as she was and lived to tell of it. And he would never tell, because even in her other form, she was magnificent in his eyes. His old self would have warned him it was not good what they were doing, following a pattern, being seen here together day-in and day-out each morning.

His old self.

What was left of it? Who was going to try and find them? What was done was done. He kept up with the papers. The capo of the family, Nicolie, guy was headed to jail and would never get out. The family had enough concerns on its hands, Jay considered, what with the question of succession, to not give himself and his woman another thought.

He looked up and there she was—his Tisiphone—crossing the street towards him. It was like everything and everyone around her froze in a blur and only she was in focus for his eyes, only she was moving. She came to him through the crowd, nearly six and a half feet tall in her heels. Her mid-thigh rain-jacket glistened, slick and glossy. Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, cheek bones pronounced, full lips. All this time together, she still took his breath away. Her magnificence.

Mierda, Jay whispered to himself, just to look at her.

He ground out his Moore in the ashtray as she sat down across from him, gracing him with a smile. Suddenly it was like people were moving again, crossing by in the street, the sounds of the city back in the air. A few of the passersby—men and women—looked at her, nearly mesmerized by her pulchritude.

Hello baby, he said when he could.

He was the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth.

2.

3:55 A.M.

(Eastern Standard Time)

Olga Coyle had a phone on the wall in her kitchen and a second on the end table abutting her bed. Her son, Eddie, had a separate line in his own room. The phone in Eddie’s room had not rung in the days since he’d gone out and failed to return home. Even if it had, Olga would not have answered it. Her Eddie’s phone was her Eddie’s phone. Her boy kept his room locked, thinking his mother couldn’t get in if she wanted to. Her boy thought his mother didn’t know what he kept in his closet.

The phone next to Olga’s bed rang.

She answered it. The voice on the other end told her where she could find her son. The other party disconnected and Olga called her best friend, Sarafina, for a ride.

Sarafina and her car were a mismatch. Olga’s friend was short and quiet, often deferential in Olga’s presence; her 1976 Ninety-Eight Oldsmobile was long, wide and loud. A four door hardtop, black over blue, with Cadillac-type tailfins, the Ninety-Eight’s rear wheels were recessed behind the quarter panels. The car, one of the largest General Motors ever made, rumbled and shook behind the 455 Rocket V8 engine, the exhaust system in need of work.

Seated on a stack of cushions, leaning forward with both hands on the wheel, Sarafina drove. Olga’s cats, Leroi and Warrior, were in the back. Leroi was stretched out behind the headrests of the rear seats, under the window, purring. Warrior stood on his rear legs, his forepaws pressed to the passenger-side window, looking out at the streets passing by.

The cats didn’t get to go for many rides.

Olga sat across from Sarafina on the front bench. A large woman, obese, Olga’s girth took up a great deal of the bench. She had her hands in her lap and was forcing herself to be quiet, forcing herself to keep still.

Her boy, Eddie.

He needed her.

The address they’d been given was for a maintenance building at a public park.

It was late and the park was vacant as the Olds rumbled to a stop at the curb, the brick building looming a short distance away. Olga braced herself against the car door and car roof, Sarafina helping her from the vehicle.

She placed one leg in front of the other, unsteady but determined. Warrior and Leroi weaved in and out between Olga’s stout legs as she made her way. Tennis courts and a baseball field loomed on either side, deserted at this time of night. The maintenance building was boarded up, looked unused.

Sarafina walked next to her friend, Olga gripping her arm for balance.

Olga’s son had been gone long enough now that Sarafina knew whatever they were going to find in that building, it wasn’t going to be good. Not for her, not for her friend. Oh, Olga. Younger than she looked, Olga would be sixty in two years. Life had been tough on Sarafina’s best friend: Olga’s husband had been gone all these years; her oldest son, Billy, dead five years now. Olga’s weight had crept up on her with the years, slowing her down.

Thanks Sarafina, my arthritis…

They reached the maintenance building, the door opening under Olga’s hand. Leroi and Warrior immediately disappeared inside, into the pitch-black, no fear. Sarafina produced a flashlight and flicked it on. The torch flickered and Sarafina tapped it, the light shining true. The two friends stepped into the darkness together.

Eddie? Olga called out to the black. Where’s my boy?

…my boy, her voice echoed back to them.

Sarafina panned the room with the light, revealing a vast, largely empty space. The remains of rusted industrial equipment took up much of one corner. Copper wiring and whatever else could be traded for money had been stripped long ago. Dried leaves were scattered about the floor from another time, another season.

There. Sarafina went to point with the flashlight when it died. She tapped it against her leg, jiggling the batteries, bringing it back to life. Sarafina directed the beam on what she’d seen, the two cats circling a heap on the floor further into the room.

Who… Olga lifted a leg and planted one foot in front of the other, breathing heavy, sweating. …who could have done this… Her weight an encumbrance, no amount of hustle would change what they’d come here to find. …done this to my boy…

They stood above Olga Coyle’s son.

Oh Eddie, my Eddie.

His body lay stretched out on the ground, amid the leaves, arms at his side. Eddie’s head had been set on his chest. The lower half of his face was all gum and teeth, his lips and most of the skin around his mouth and cheeks cut away. His ears had been sawed off and an orbit was vacant its eye.

…my little Eddie...

Sarafina’s flashlight flickered and she cursed the thing, cursed it between her tears, rapping it with the palm of her hand, angry at herself, she should have changed the batteries. The light returned.

…oh, Eddie baby, my baby… Olga had sunk down next to her boy and was cradling his head, caressing his hair, her son’s head half a skull. I promise you, mommy promises you this...

The light in Sarafina’s hand dimmed.

…whoever hurt you, Olga paused, something caught in her throat, whoever did this to you baby, they’ll—

Sarafina’s flashlight died.

—they’ll have hell to pay.

They were alone in the dark together for some time, Sarafina’s sobs punctuating the quiet.

When Olga spoke, the words were of an ancient and lost tongue. A light sprang to life in the palm of her hand. The effulgence radiated outwards from the woman, its brilliance filling the room. Shadows vanished and the stark emptiness of the scene was revealed to them. Warrior and Leroi scurried about, agitated, their tails raised.

Sarafina. The otherworldly fire burning in her hand, Olga looked up from her boy to her best friend. Give me a hand, would you? My knees…

Sarafina bent down to help her mistress back to her feet, Olga saying I’m going to need help, as she wrapped her pudgy arms around Sarafina’s neck, Sarafina heaving, Olga rising, standing, need help getting Eddie to the car.

The light radiating from Olga’s hand burned neither of them.

Olga stood there, above her boy, determination and something else in her eye. It was the something else that concerned Sarafina, scared her.

"Yes, magistra." Sarafina moved to help her high priestess.

3.

6:03 A.M.

Dawn was still in process as Detective Will Gritz Gritzowski arrived at the scene. A homicide was what they were saying over the radio. What they weren’t saying—this Gritz could feel—Mephisto had struck again. He pulled off the Palisades Parkway at the Rockefeller Lookout, parking his Crown Vic beyond the marked police cars and emergency vehicles. Gritz got out of the sedan in his coat and tie, a little older and slower than the day before, a steaming blue and white cup of coffee in his hand to help chase away last night’s drink.

He had no jurisdiction here across the river. The place was swarming with law enforcement: the Englewood Cliffs police were heavy on the scene; their medical examiner’s people; a number of Jersey State troopers with their Sam Brown belts and their saucer-shaped hats, badges on those hats. A collection of blue-on-white Parkway police cars and State Trooper vehicles filling the pull off.

Gritz made his way through the crowd towards the taped off scene, greeting the Englewood P.D. like he knew them until he came across one he did.

Pull any black guy’s over lately? Gritz mustered a grin. Heck if he could recall the man’s name. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t bust his balls. Maryland and Jersey State Police had been in the news lately over racial profiling, pulling black motorists over in disproportionate numbers on the Turnpike and 95.

Hey, the cop replied, smiling back, recognizing Gritz. I just do what my supervisor tells me.

Yeah, we’re all good Germans, Gritz commiserated, wanting to ask the man a question but he’d already gone.

Gritz got as close as he could and stopped to watch. The forensics boys were there in white, bagging evidence. A photographer worked the scene. A couple detective-types in jackets were talking to one another, looking in his direction. He could tell they recognized him, could tell they thought he was past his expiration date. Gritz raised his coffee to them, Fuck you, boys, saying it so only he could hear it.

A white sheet was tarped over a body.

Gritz rubbed a hand on his jaw. He needed a shave. Nah. He’d needed a shave three days ago. This was getting ridiculous.

Rotors reverberated overhead, a news chopper covering the traffic backup on the Palisades.

Gritz knew what they said about him behind his back. They used to call him True Gritz, respect in their voices. Nowadays they called him Bad Lieutenant like Keitel in that movie. Or worse, a drunk. Not that there wasn’t an element of truth to it. Gritz liked him his drink. Carried a flask. Gritz could kid around about it with himself, thinking it was like that old joke: what’s the difference between an alcoholic and a drunk? A drunk doesn’t have to go to those stupid meetings.

And he didn’t.

Every day, Gritz was feeling more and more like someone’s stereotype of a policeman: the grizzled, veteran detective who’d seen it all and learned to shrug his shoulders at the inhumanity. There was another side to that coin, even less attractive, the middle-aged, washed-up, burnt out cop. Gritz didn’t know if he’d go so far to say he was corrupt, but he’d turned his head to enough bullshit in the past twenty-five years. Only in the earliest days did any of it trouble his sleep. These days he carried the flask, which helped.

Foley came over to stand next to him. Foley with his kit, straight out of the New York City Medical Examiner’s Office. Foley looked past the crime scene, beyond the river.

What are we looking at Foley?

Looks like Spuyten Duyvil to me. A part of Riverdale over in the Bronx.

They found a note. Gritz didn’t ask him if he’d spoken to anybody from the Jersey M.E.’s office.

They found a note, confirmed Foley, proceeding to fill Gritz in on the details. Gritz listened and nodded, sipping at his coffee now that it was cooling. Foley wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know, hadn’t seen before. This guy called himself Mephisto, guy had an M.O.

As Foley talked, Gritz thought he had another reason to drink these days. The bullshit was mounting. Cases he couldn’t solve; others he stood powerless on the sidelines of; a troubled marriage. Hell if it could even be called a marriage anymore. He and Cathleen were estranged, their kids wouldn’t talk to him.

Why’s he hunting them outside the city now?

Make our lives more difficult, Foley ventured.

Gritz and Foley stood on the overlook, the lot blocked off from interstate traffic, police tape and police at the entrance, a mess of vehicles clogging the lot. The helicopter buzzed overhead. Gritz remarked to the coroner, There’s got to be a way out of here.

Said the joker to the thief. Like Gritz, Foley was a classic rock guy. They had that, baseball, and their love of booze in common. See you at Jackie’s sometime, detective.

Gritz grunted by way of goodbye and stood there with his coffee, looking out across the Hudson River to Westchester County, to the south Bronx and northern Manhattan. Focusing on the city south of here, he wondered at its secrets, dark and terrible, a part of him feeling better off not knowing.

But a guy like him, a guy like him couldn’t let it go.

Yeah, Gritz was feeling more and more each day like some badly written stereotype of a cop from a crime novel or movie. And he could see where it was all going from here. Few more years, he’d be Fish from Barney Miller. The best case scenario. The worse case, well, the worse case he didn’t particularly want to consider.

He watched them transfer the sheeted body to a gurney.

Whatever.

He was what he was and he was here by his own choice.

A second chopper had joined the first in the sky.

The one thing Gritz liked to do and still did, outside of drinking, was read. And lately he’d taken to picking up Faust, thinking about it, looking for clues.

Guess he likes Faust Frank had said to him, referring to this Mephisto freak. Said it to him at the porn girl’s murder. What was that, over a month ago? The porn girl slaughtered with eight other human beings, not much recognizable left about any of them. DNA and dental evidence confirming their identities.

That was Gritz’s case.

That was what he should be working on, instead of standing here in Jersey on a Tuesday morning.

The hell was Frank these days anyway.

But Mephisto, come on: Why would someone call themself that?

4.

9:45 A.M.

Johnny Spasso with his sunglasses, a Fu-Manchu covering his upper lip, in the passenger seat next to Sully behind the wheel. Spasso usually packing a pistol under each arm, but not today. Spasso was always cool. He didn’t care if the cops were grilling him, if people were shooting at him. He would maintain his poise. And it wasn’t an act.

This morning, this morning was hard though.

The boss, Dickie Nicolie, sitting in the back. Dickie given to tracks suits, even wearing one this morning, today when he’d be trading in his freedom. The capo wore a dark green zippered jacket and matching pants over spotless tennis shoes. His Movado on his wrist and his gold crucifix on his neck.

This is really in the middle of nowhere, Dickie said as Sully’s Cadillac passed through the trees. They’d left the throughway behind some time ago. I escape, Dickie was grinning, where the fuck am I gonna be?

Johnny and Sully chose not to comment, only Gooch saying anything, You thinkin’ ‘bout escape already, Dick?

I’m thinkin’, maybe Maryann bakes me a cake with a file. Dickie winked at Sully in the rearview mirror, Sully with his toothpick in his mouth, the driver not thinking much of the man in the backseat with Dickie. Sully the type to say something, but Johnny had spoken to him beforehand and he understood. He’d keep his mouth shut, not tell Gooch what he thought of the man, what he suspected. What they all suspected.

Not today.

Not today of all days.

There’d be a time for that.

They’d be stupid to bring Cassidy into this. Gooch volunteered, bringing back up a conversation from earlier.

That’d be upping the ante, acknowledged Dickie. They bring Cassidy into this, he reached forward from the backseat and put his hand on the shoulder of Johnny’s raincoat, You’re all over him.

Johnny nodded, knew what Dickie meant.

Now, Dickie sat back, settling into the leather seats of Sully’s El Dorado, they try and bring Eduardo in on this— the look on Gooch’s face as Dickie said it, even Johnny perking up —you just kill that Mexican, Johnny. The hell with the consequences. Dickie looked out the window to the trees. Guy’s a wild animal.

The prison came into sight, the only thing around, looking like something someone plunked down in the middle of the trees.

Wow, Gooch the only one to speak. Looks like a fortress or somethin’. Gooch the only one to speak because Dickie had his thoughts and Johnny and Sully knew that silence was the best form of respect in a situation like this.

Not like Rikers… Gooch mentioning Rikers where he’d done a couple bits. Sully’s eyes nailed Gooch in the rearview, Gooch oblivious to it. Gooch mentioning Rikers when Dickie was staring Buck Rogers time in the face.

The Cadillac pulled to a stop outside the prison, a sign stating the name of the correctional facility, a high cyclone fence. Part of the fence rolled back, three men stepping out onto the path. Two of them in correctional officers uniforms, the third in a suit.

Dickie lowered the window, called out to them, Be with you gentlemen in a minute, pressed another button, the window humming back up into place. Gooch, do me a favor, get my bag out the back. I’ll be there in a minute.

Sure thing, boss.

When Gooch had left the car, Dickie turned to Johnny.

I want you to keep an eye on Gooch, Dickie unclasped his watch, removing it from his wrist. Whatever Heinlein’s into, Gooch’s in on it with him.

We’re on him, Johnny assured.

Found it kind of, I don’t know, Sully searched for the word, "funny, you bringing him along this morning. Thought maybe…" Sully flicked his index finger against his thumb.

Not this time, Dickie smiled at the driver. You know that saying about keeping your enemies closer? Doesn’t hurt to keep the guy guessin’ either. Dickie held his watch up, looking at it dangling there. Here Sully, he proffered the time piece, I want you to have this.

Sully was shocked, his mouth open, the toothpick somehow fixed there, wasn’t going to fall out, Dickie saying to him, No, you wear it in good health before the driver could speak. No way they’re going to let me keep it in there.

Thanks, Dickie.

Their boss was going away and he wouldn’t be coming back. Dickie had been slapped with a sentence heavy enough to see him through the remainder of his natural lifetime and then some.

The trio of prison officials waited outside the fence, patient. They weren’t going anywhere. Gooch was next to the Cadillac with Dickie’s overnight bag.

Walk with me, Johnny.

Johnny got out of the car, closing Dickie’s door behind the man. Johnny took the bag from Gooch, Dickie thanking the man. They started walking, Dickie leaving his freedom behind him.

This family is going to fall apart. Dickie admitted his fears to Johnny.

No, Johnny told him because it’s what he needed to hear. It’s not.

Dickie stopped and Johnny stopped, Dickie turning to face his man, placing a hand on his shoulder. Johnny Dickie’s friend, employee. Hitman. Enforcer. Whatever the job description, it wasn’t something you could file a 1040 for.

Know what I always respected about you, Johnny? Johnny stayed silent, let Dickie say it when he was ready. I mean, aside from your inimitable style, Dickie getting a smile out of Johnny with that one, Johnny in his rain jacket and pony tail, the Fu-Manchu and shades. You ain’t old, but you’re like me. Old school.

Dickie took the bag from Johnny, put it on the ground. He hugged Johnny, really hugged him, none of that bullshit that went on at the social club, upper arms pressed to the torso, arms bent at the elbow. He wrapped his arms around Johnny Spasso and embraced him the way he would one of his sons.

Johnny hugged him back.

Dickie whispered something in Italian, something only Johnny could hear.

Dickie stepped back and picked up his bag. He patted Johnny on the shoulder, turned and walked away. Johnny Spasso stood on the path in his raincoat and sunglasses, watching him go.

Gentlemen. Dickie raised his arms away from his body, greeting his warders.

Thursday

15 October 1998

5.

3:30 P.M.

DeAndre Watkins always seemed to have a book under his arm.

Growing up in Queens, in the blighted Moses houses, books were DeAndre’s escape. He could sit down in the library or at home and lose himself in a world of wizards and dragons, of beautiful princesses and fantastical magic, worlds where the good guys were indubitably the good guys and the bad guys bad. Books and worlds where good ultimately triumphed over evil.

Where DeAndre came across words he didn’t know, like indubitably, he looked them up. And once he’d looked them up, he knew them. He owned them.

Sometimes other kids in his neighborhood saw him reading and made comments about it, trying to make fun of him. DeAndre ignored these kids and their taunts. They were going nowhere fast. DeAndre was twelve years old and already thinking on college.

This afternoon there were few folks outside. The people had jobs were at them. At night these streets would teem with people, mostly young men with little if any parental supervision. Young men like DeAndre’s brother Terry and his friends. That time of night, DeAndre would be sitting on his bed with his back to the wall and a book in his lap the way he liked to do, the sounds from the street barely registering in his room on the ninth floor.

He passed a bag lady on the other side of the street, the woman pushing a 2-wheeled folding grocery cart, the cart full of recyclable cans in a clear lawn and leaf bag. The woman looking the other way.

He walked by Old Toke on a bench, Old Toke a friend of his momma’s from way back. DeAndre’s momma