Hollywood Dead

  The black blade I test last. I haven’t held it in a long time and it feels a little alien in my hand. Still, the balance and weight are good. I run through some close-quarters stabbing and slashing drills. I’m not used to fighting in armor. Before long, I’m sweating and panting like an asthmatic hog. Butit feels good to be moving, and the more practice I get, the quicker I’ll work out the stiffness in the armor.

  From behind me, I hear, “Excuse me.”

  I’m in the middle of a sequence of kill moves, so when I hear the voice, I spin without thinking and throw the blade. It buries itself deep in a sapling next to Roger’s head. When he doesn’t move, I go over to him, not sure if he’s had a stroke or just enjoys the view.

  “Oops. What do you want?”

  He takes a few steps back from the blade.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t sneak up on someone when they’re getting ready to murder people.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He looks at me, a little giddy at being alive.

  “No reason.”

  “Did Sandoval send you?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t be shy, Roger. It’s just us here.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Just us.”

  I pull the blade from the tree. He flinches like I pulled it out of his ass.

  “Is it because of the noise?”

  He nods.

  “The neighbors have been calling. They think it’s fireworks and this being the fire season, well …” He trails off.

  “No problem. I was about done anyway.” I peel off the armor and toss it to him. “You take that. I’ll get the rest.”

  “Of course. I’m happy to help.”

  I start gathering my gear. I put the ammo and Glock in a duffel bag and sling the rifle across my shoulder. When I head back, Roger follows.

  I say, “How long have you been with Wormwood?”

  “Eight years,” he says.

  I look back at him.

  “You look a little young for that.”

  “I started as an intern.”

  I stop and turn to him.

  “Wormwood has interns?”

  “Yes. We do a lot of outreach to exceptional students in a broad range of specialties.”

  “Do they get college credit?”

  “Of course.”

  “For helping destroy the world?”

  “Mostly it’s for assisting the senior associates.”

  “So, a lot of typing and filing.”

  “Among other things,” he says.

  “What other things?”

  “You know. Animal sacrifice. Elementary soul binding. Demon summoning.”

  When we’re at the edge of the grove I turn around, letting Roger bump into me.

  “Are you a senior associate?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Upper midlevel.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you,” he says warily.

  I put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Roger, just between you and me, did you ever murder anybody for Wormwood?”

  He clears his throat, not sure how to answer. I can feel the gears in his brain turning as he works out the lie.

  “Never.”

  I look at him.

  “When I say murder, I don’t mean did you stick a knife in someone’s ribs, I mean kill. Magic. Poison. Maybe you just filed the paperwork for a hit.”

  “No,” he says. “Never anything like that.”

  “Okay.”

  I look back at the mansion.

  “Are any of your other friends—the other roaches—are they killers?”

  “Nope.”

  “I find it hard to believe that Eva and Barron would surround themselves with a bunch of helpless baby birds. Are you sure none of you are killers?”

  “Positive,” he says. Then, “We’re not all like you, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  Now that we’re close to home, Roger’s growing an extra set of balls.

  “A maniac.”

  “I’m not a maniac, Roger. I’m a killer. And I’m asking you all these questions because, while I was out there under the lovely trees, I started wondering if Eva and Barron planned to kill me after I do their job, and if you roaches are the ones who are supposed to do it.”

  He hands me back the body armor.

  “You made a bargain with Wormwood. We honor our bargains. If we didn’t, how would the organization have survived this long?”

  I look at him for a minute. He’s finally telling the truth, or what he thinks is the truth.

  I say, “That actually makes sense.”

  “Of course it does. We’re Wormwood. Not the government.”

  “Okay, you’re dismissed. But don’t sneak up on me like that again. Next time, I might not miss.”

  Roger goes to the back door of the house and calls, “Have a good time tonight. I hope you don’t get killed or anything.”

  Then he gives me the finger and goes inside.

  I watch him go and think about my stupid life. I’m working for Wormwood. Killing for Wormwood, in fact. I’m half-dead. I have no home. No money. No girl. No friends that I’m sure of. Food tastes like shit. Whiskey tastes just a little better than fruit punch. I have no Maledictions. No Aqua Regia. I’m afraid to let anyone important know I’m back. And I just got told off by a middle-management twerp. I’m not saying that I should have stayed in Hell, but if anyone who knew me from the old days Downtown—back when I was Sandman Slim, the monster who kills monsters—saw me now it would be downright embarrassing.

  AFTER I SHOWER off some of my humiliation, I put on my old coat and go to Sandoval’s office. She and Barron are both on their laptops. She’s at her desk and he’s at a table nearby. There are prescription bottles and a bottle of water. He catches me looking at them.

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing contagious,” he says. “And it’s not cancer.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A curse, as far as anyone can tell. I was poisoned by something not in any normal medical journal.”

  “It must be high-level stuff if none of your magicians can cure it.”

  “It is. Top-notch.”

  “Hurts?”

  “Like a son of a bitch.”

  I want to say, Good, but instead I say, “Sorry.”

  “Forget him,” says Sandoval. “Do you have everything you need for tonight?”

  “Probably not. But I have everything I can think of.”

  “That will have to do then.”

  She looks at my duffel bag.

  “Do you have any more room in that?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “You have one more task tonight. Since the faction will be performing an unknown ritual, we would like any and all mystical materials and artifacts they’re using. That way, we can analyze their methods and perhaps get a step ahead of them.”

  I drop the bag on the floor.

  “I thought I was just supposed to stop the damned ritual. You now want maid service too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forget it. I’m going to kill everyone, then burn the place.”

  “Feel free,” says Sandoval. “But after you recover the artifacts.”

  “What if I forget?”

  She gets up from her desk.

  “That would void our agreement and you can spend the rest of the weekend with your friend Marcella, watching your body rot down to the bones.”

  I’m definitely killing all of them when this is over.

  “I’ll bring back what I can. But I can’t guarantee it’ll be everything.”

  “Bring back enough that we believe you put in a good effort. Enough that we can decipher their plans. If you do that, Howard will go ahead and fully restore you to life.”

  I pick up the bag again.

  “Tell him to be ready for me.”
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  “He will be,” she says.

  I leave the office with a bad feeling in my gut. Killing I’m good at. Playing retriever, I’m not. But what choice do I have? And if that’s what it takes to get back to where I want to be, fuck it. I’ll back up a truck to the chapel and pry every pew out of the ground and every cherub off the wall.

  Before I take off, I go to the bowling alley to see if there’s anything else I can get out of Marcella. When I come in she jumps up from the mattress and runs to the far wall. Crouches there like an animal. When I get closer, I can see why. Her shirt is gone. Her face and arms are bruised. Both eyes are black and swollen. There are marks on her chest like bug bites. I try to get closer, but I can tell she’s about three seconds from jumping me. I set down the bag on a chair and stay where I am.

  “I told you it would hurt if you tried to leave.”

  She laughs.

  “Leave,” she says. “I didn’t try to leave, you idiot. A bunch of your friends came down here in the night. They asked the same stupid questions you did, only they weren’t as polite.”

  “What are those marks on your chest?”

  She runs a hand over the bug bites.

  “You like these? They’re cigarette burns.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. A guy. A young guy.”

  I take out the Shermans and show her one.

  “Were the cigarettes like this?”

  “Yes.”

  Roger.

  “First off, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I know, Boy Scout.”

  “Second, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “How? It looks like you’re on your way out.”

  “Trust me. It’s taken care of.”

  Marcella takes a few steps toward me.

  “You want me to trust you? Then don’t leave me alone like this. I know my gun is in that bag. Give it to me.”

  “I’m sympathetic, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Then leave me something,” she says.

  The bruises are bad, but they’re not what get to me. It’s the burns. That kind of thing is methodical. Thought out in advance. Someone’s idea of a good time. And even though Marcella is an asshole, I told her she’d be all right down here.

  I reach into my coat and take out the black blade.

  “You see this knife? It means a lot to me. There’s only one other like it in the world. If something should happen to it, I’m going to be angry. If someone tried to use it on me, I’d be even angrier. Understood?”

  “Understood,” she says.

  I hold it out to her. She shakes her head, so I set it on one of the scoring tables. It’s not until I’ve picked up the duffel and am over by the door that Marcella snatches up the knife. She frowns at it.

  “What the hell kind of knife is this? It looks like it was made by Fred Flintstone.”

  “Remember those Hellions from yesterday?”

  “A wee bit.”

  “They made it. That’s bone.”

  She holds the blade up to the light.

  “This knife is from Hell?”

  “Yes. And keep your hand away from the blade. It’ll cut through just about anything. Take a finger or your whole hand off before you know it.”

  “And you’re giving it to me?”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s a loan. I’ll want it back when I’m done.”

  She raises her hand and brings the knife down on one of the folding chairs. It splits into two pieces.

  “Nice,” she says.

  “Yes it is. Like I said, don’t lose it. But feel free to kill anyone who comes in here who isn’t me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice, Boy Scout.”

  “I’m going now. No one will bother you while I’m gone.”

  “But you’re giving me the knife anyway.”

  “I don’t think they will, but I’ve learned not to underestimate people’s desire for self-destruction.”

  I close the door quietly and go back upstairs to Sandoval’s office.

  The roaches have joined her and Sinclair.

  “Good. You’re all here.”

  Sandoval looks surprised.

  “I thought you’d left.”

  “There’s just one thing before I leave.”

  Faster than he can blink, I grab Roger and hit him. The first punch breaks his nose. The second and third fracture his jaw. I let him go so he falls on the floor, bleeding all over Sandoval’s nice Persian rug. While he’s still down there, I pull the Colt from my waistband and point it at the closest roach. It’s a woman with red hair and a white rose on her lapel.

  Sandoval yells, “Stark! Have you lost your mind?”

  “Shut up.”

  I press the Colt against the redhead’s temple.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sandra,” she says.

  “Sandra, teacher has to leave the room for a while. Your job is to take the names of any bad boys or girls who try to go downstairs to the bowling alley. Can you do that for me, Sandra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because if anything else happens to Marcella, I want to know who to kill first.”

  “Stop it, Stark, or the deal is off,” says Sandoval.

  I point the Colt at her.

  “That’s not much of an epitaph, Eva, but oh well.”

  I cock the gun.

  Sinclair gets between me and Eva.

  “Listen to me,” he says. “Nothing will happen to the woman downstairs. I’ll see to it personally. Just put the gun down and finish the job. You’re so close to being whole again.”

  I look from Sandoval to him and back to her. Roger moans on the floor. For the first time, she seems genuinely scared.

  I lower the hammer on the Colt and put it away.

  Sinclair says, “Let’s pretend that none of this ever happened. We’ll have Howard get set up as soon as you leave, so that he’ll be ready for you when you get back.”

  “Good.”

  I look over at Roger.

  “And get rid of him. I don’t want to ever see Roger again.”

  “Fine,” says Sinclair.

  I look over at Sandra.

  “Remember. You’re in charge while I’m gone.”

  “I remember,” she says.

  I look at Sandoval. She’s not scared anymore. She’s trying to figure out the best way to fuck me over.

  “See you soon, Eva.”

  She says, “You’ve proven you can hurt an unarmed boy. Now prove that you deserve your reputation. Hurt people who can hurt you back.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “And bring me back my artifacts.”

  “In an Easter basket with ribbons on top.”

  I step into a shadow and get out of there before I change my mind and snuff all of them.

  THE CHAPEL OF St. Alexis is an old Spanish-style mission, the kind you see all over Southern California. There’s nothing very impressive about it. It sits behind a rusty chain-link fence. The front doors are padlocked. Most of the stained glass windows are broken. Part of the roof has collapsed, leaving some of the roof beams exposed. Even the crooked cross over the front is a mildewed rotten tooth.

  I don’t know why anyone would want to spend a fortune putting this hovel back together again. Of course, aside from fear, the God business runs on sentimentality. That’s the only explanation. Unless it’s a real estate scam. I’d feel a lot better about the place if I thought that was what was really going on. But I’m probably wrong. I usually am about these kinds of things. The chapel is just the obsession of a lot of poor slobs who’ve been convinced that fixing it up will buy them a ticket straight to Heaven. Man, are they going to be surprised when they get there.

  The sun is already starting down, so half of the chapel is in shadow. I step through it and come out in the crypt below.

  No one is here yet, but someone was working on the place. The floor has been swept clean and
there are halogen floods around the walls, lighting up the crypt like it’s noon on the solstice.

  There are small vaults all around the crypt, three high, and each holding a single coffin. Extra-holy or extra-wealthy parishioners, I guess. Maybe old priests. Really, who cares? They’re dead and won’t mind my using their crusty corpses as a duck blind.

  I climb behind a coffin in one of the second-tier vaults directly across from the crypt entrance. It’s deep and dark back here. Smells of dust and old bones. Not really comforting, but it’s good cover. The way the lights are set up, they throw some nice shadows into all the vaults, except the ones directly in line with the lamps. That might be useful later.

  I try to get comfortable while I wait for sunset, but after a few minutes of wrestling with the armor I’m beginning to regret asking for it. Then I catch a glimpse of my still-bruised wrist and it reminds me of why I wanted it. I check the sight on the rifle for the hundredth time. Make sure I can reach the Glock inside my coat and the Colt at my back. I wish I had a drink. I wish I had a smoke. I wish I was at Flicker’s drive-in with Candy and a stolen Cadillac the size of Texas. And I wish whoever chooses the spots for these ceremonies could quit the Bela Lugosi bullshit. It’s always a crypt. It’s always a cemetery or a spooky old mansion where a family was murdered by a serial killer or angry Girl Scouts when they didn’t buy enough cookies. The next hoodoo ceremony I crash better be at Musso and Frank so I can get a decent martini when the killing is over.

  I hear scraping from far away. A murmur of voices. The scrape turns into the sound of a door opening. More voices and, now, footsteps. A lot of footsteps. More footsteps than I was hoping for.

  A few seconds later, they start filing into the crypt.

  Shit.

  There’s a lot of them. A lot.

  Five magicians and ten heavily armed guards. Silly me hoping that, for a ceremony this important, those numbers would be reversed. Nothing I can do about it now except hunker a little farther back into the vault and wait to see how the scene plays out. I could start shooting now, but the magicians aren’t set up, and with the amount of firepower they have, they could escape while I’m dealing with a shitstorm. No. I’ve got to let the magicians start their ceremony and hope it distracts the guards before I do anything. That means patience, and I hate patience.