Fear City

  “Looks like he’s heading for Queens.”

  They followed him through the tunnel and onto 495.

  “Long Island?” Reggie said. “Let’s hope so. Less crowded out there.”

  But no, he turned south on the BQE.

  “Brooklyn. Damn.”

  They needed an opportunity to roust Lonnie into the van with a minimum of fuss and, ideally, no witnesses. Or at least none who’d care enough to drop a dime.

  Lonnie got onto Broadway in Williamsburg and followed that to Myrtle Avenue in Bushwick.

  “Where the hell is he going?”

  “You know this city good?” Klarić said.

  Reggie nodded. “Been here a few years now. Don’t have a car but I’ve bused and subwayed all over.”

  Not much else to do. Living in the Order’s building and waiting for them to give him something to pick up or deliver had offered him virtually unlimited free time. Unfortunately he’d had extremely limited funds. But if he planned his transfers right, he could ride all day, all over the five boroughs, on a single subway token. He’d done just that, many times. He’d taken the M train out here on numerous occasions. Most of the subway lines in the outer boroughs weren’t sub at all—they ran on elevated tracks. Reggie preferred those because they gave him something to look at besides a tunnel wall. Right now Lonnie was leading them along the tracks that ran above Myrtle Avenue.

  Finally he pulled in before a small garage flanked by abandoned buildings under the tracks near Palmetto and St. Nicholas. Its corrugated overhead door was down. Klarić slowed a little as they cruised by.

  “This might be good,” Reggie said as he watched Lonnie enter through the smaller door to the side. “Depending on who and what’s inside, this could be real good.”

  Klarić’s head was swiveling like a radar dish. “I do not know. Maybe we should wait for night.”

  “Night? Who knows where he’s gonna be by night? Listen. It’s still early in the morning and it’s Presidents’ Day—”

  “What is this Presidents’ Day?”

  “A holiday. The kids are off school. Most of them are sleeping in. And the ones that ain’t—man, it’s not only fucking freezing out there, it’s pouring, so if they ain’t watching ’toons, they’re playing Mario Brothers or Mortal Kombat.”

  “I don’t like,” Klarić said. “Too much light.”

  “The amount of light don’t matter—the amount of people matter, and there ain’t hardly any around. Let me out here, then hang a U and come back while I take a peek inside.”

  As Klarić pulled over, Reggie grabbed his short bow and quiver from behind the seat.

  Klarić pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster and held it up. “Why you so old-fashioned? This is better.”

  “I’m better with this. I might kill him with that.” He showed him the tip of the two-blade broadhead he used. “Besides, this hurts more.”

  He’d told al-Thani that he needed a long coat and Klarić had arrived with a lined raincoat this morning. He hooked the quiver to his belt and slipped the bow under the flap of the coat.

  Doing his best to look like he belonged there, he strolled most of the way to the door Lonnie had entered, then slowed and sidled the last few feet. The door had no windows and was even more beat-up than the rest of the building. Its warped wood made it hang crooked on its hinges, leaving a gap between the edge and the frame. Reggie peeked through …

  … and there he was: Lonnie.

  Reggie contained the eruption of rage. Had to keep calm, check out the scene. Anyone else around? No, just the little spic chick he was talking to. She looked fourteen, tops. What was he—?

  That dirty motherfucker! She was the right color and the right age now to be one of the kids they’d trucked up to Staten Island. Had he kept one for himself?

  Reggie’s hand shook as he pulled the bow from under his coat and grabbed an arrow. Plenty of space in the gap to place one in his shoulder—his right shoulder, because that would make that arm useless but leave all the rest of his body to have fun with when they dragged him back to the West Side.

  He nocked the arrow onto the string …

  7

  “First stop will be FAO Schwartz where we can—”

  “Can we go on the big piano?” Bonita said, her dark eyes flashing. “The one on the floor?”

  Jack laughed as he helped wrap a scarf around her neck. Damn, her English was better every time he saw her.

  “You don’t know how to play piano,” said Rico from where he was adjusting the hydraulics on the plow attachment to his truck.

  The forecast predicted snow for Friday so Jack guessed he was getting ready.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jack called back. Then to Bonita, “Have you been watching Big again?”

  “I love Big!”

  “So do I. But is he right—you can’t play piano?”

  “No.”

  “Neither can I, except for ‘Chopsticks.’ I’ll show you how when we get there—if they still have the keyboard and if they’ll let us.”

  “They did in the movie.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a movie. We’ll be in real life.”

  Bonita had never been in FAO and neither had he. What for? He was the only kid he knew, and he preferred toys from the time when his father was a kid.

  “And then we go to the movie?”

  “No, then we go to lunch. I think you’ll like Mickey Mantle’s. It’s just down the street from FAO. Your brother’s gonna be so jealous ’cause I hear they have great burgers. After our bellies are fit to bust, we go see Home Alone Two. I—oops, your shoe is untied.”

  As he dropped into a crouch to fix it, he heard a thik! and a soft grunt from Bonita. He looked up and she was falling backward with an arrow shaft protruding from her chest.

  It took a heartbeat or two to process the impossible sight playing out right in front of him. Bonita’s expression showed more shock and surprise than pain as she continued to stumble-fall backward. He heard Rico scream her name but he wasn’t rushing toward her. Instead he was charging to Jack’s right, his face a mask of rage. Jack’s first instinct was to grab for Bonita but another more primitive part made him seek out the origin of the arrow.

  Arrow …

  That could mean only one thing … only one person.

  As he spun he saw a pale skinny guy with a red mullet standing inside the door that was still swinging open.

  Reggie.

  He was nocking another arrow and his narrow little eyes were on Jack. But those eyes shifted right and he couldn’t help but know he wasn’t going to get a second shot at Jack with Rico so close. So he swiveled and loosed it at Rico. It pierced his throat, the point erupting from the back of his neck. Rico stumbled and dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat as blood gushed from his mouth.

  Jack was already moving. He’d left his Glock under the front seat of the pickup and didn’t have time to go for the Semmerling in his ankle holster, so he grabbed a small wooden bench and raised it as he charged Reggie. He peered over the top edge as he held it before him like a shield. He saw Reggie nock another arrow—damn, he was fast—and aim it straight at the bench. Jack didn’t believe for a second that Reggie thought he could put it through the two-inch board, so he watched his eyes, and when they flicked down, he lowered the bench and it caught the arrow loosed at his legs.

  And then he was on Reggie, ramming him back against the door just as someone else started to come through. The door slammed against the newcomer. Jack had time to notice he was big and had a semiauto in his hand before slamming the bench against Reggie again, knocking him down. The bow fell from his grasp as his arrows scattered across the floor.

  The big guy pushed through then but tripped over the fallen Reggie. The new guy’s arm was closest so Jack slammed the bench down hard against it. A bone crunched in his elbow and the gun dropped. Jack swung the bench again, this time against the guy’s head.

  Reggie was up and moving—toward the door rathe
r than Jack. Jack grabbed for him, caught a piece of his coat but couldn’t hold him. He threw the bench at him, hitting his upper back. It staggered him but didn’t knock him off his feet. He banged against the door frame, bounced off, and stumbled outside.

  “Oh, no! Not this time!”

  The new guy lay prone, reaching for his gun with his good arm. Jack jumped on him, landing knees first full force on his back. He heard ribs shatter as the air rushed out in an agonized whoosh. Grabbing the bow and picking up an arrow as he rose, Jack took off after Reggie. He wanted to go to Bonita and Rico, but if he didn’t stop Reggie now, no telling what further harm he’d do. He might be going for an Uzi or the like.

  As he came through the door he saw the mullet-haired bastard climbing into a Caravan. Jack reached it just as the door slammed shut and locked. He stood in the rain smashing his hands against the window. Just inches away on the other side of the glass, Reggie grinned as he gave him the finger.

  But the grin disappeared when he reached for the ignition. His expression became frantic as he began looking around the front seats.

  Jack could think of only one reason for that: no key. And he had a pretty good idea where that key might be.

  He dashed back inside and found the big guy grunting in agony as he inched along the floor on his belly toward his fallen semiautomatic. Jack kicked it away, then jumped on his back again. More ribs cracked. Jack pawed through his pockets, finding a wallet, some cash, some keys—

  A door slammed outside.

  The Caravan? Reggie making a run for it?

  Grabbing the bow and arrow again, he dashed back outside. Sure enough, Reggie was hurrying away through the rain as best he could on the knees Jack had once broken. Jack knew nothing about bows, but it seemed pretty cut and dried. He nocked an arrow with a nasty-looking head, pulled it back to his chin, aimed it at Reggie’s back, and let fly.

  Missed. By at least a dozen feet.

  He was going to have to do this the hard way.

  Still holding the bow, he gave chase at full speed. Reggie glanced over his shoulder and cried out when he saw how fast Jack was gaining. He tried to increase his pace but his knees wouldn’t allow it. When Jack was close enough, he reached out to grab his collar, then had a better idea. Instead, he swung the end of the bow over Reggie’s head and yanked back, catching him by the throat.

  With a choking cry, Reggie’s feet flew out from under him and he landed hard on his back. As he lay there stunned, with the wind knocked out of him, Jack used the bow to begin dragging him by the neck back toward the garage. By the time they reached the door he was kicking and clawing at the floor and the jamb, trying to regain his feet, but a series of yanking twists of the bow kept him on the ground until he was inside.

  Jack dragged him through his spilled arrows.

  “You’re into arrows, Reggie?” he said as he knelt beside him and grabbed one from the floor. “How about we put one into you?”

  He rolled him over and rammed it into his throat. The wicked barbed head plunged into the flesh left of center. Reggie levered up, eyes bulging. He looked like he was howling in pain but only a hoarse rush of air came out his wide-open mouth. He kicked and twisted as he made that strange sound.

  Jack checked the new guy, who looked like he was having trouble breathing. Punctured lung maybe?

  Satisfied that neither would be doing much more damage for a few minutes, Jack rushed over to where Bonita lay flat on her back, her arms flung wide, her sweater soaked red, her eyes open and glazed, fixed on the ceiling.

  “No! No-no-no-no!”

  He wanted to press on her chest. He didn’t know CPR but even if he did, how do you resuscitate someone with an arrow in her heart? He’d seen the barbed heads on Reggie’s arrows and knew he couldn’t pull this one out without shredding her insides. He checked for a pulse, for breathing—nothing on both counts. He blew into her mouth and saw dark blood bubble up around the arrow shaft. He tried pressing on her chest but it only pushed more blood out around the shaft.

  He heard a gagging cough—Rico.

  Jack reached him in time to see him breathe his last. Reggie’s arrow had pierced his neck so Jack pumped on his chest but it succeeded only in making crimson bubbles in the blood filling his mouth.

  Jack felt himself losing it. He tried to keep a grip but the dark genie had escaped his bottle and was exulting in its freedom.

  Jack stalked over to Reggie and began kicking him. He’d worn sneakers today so he wasn’t doing near the damage he wanted. Cristin dead, Rico dead, Bonita dead, all because of this piece of human garbage. All Jack’s fault.

  “I let you live!”

  The Mikulskis had warned him.

  “They told me to kill you!” He kept kicking. “But I couldn’t do it!”

  One of the brothers’ words echoed back …

  These subhumans are like boomerangs. They somehow find their way back to you.

  And Reggie had done just that. If Jack had dumped him in the channel as they’d wanted, or if he’d used the tire iron on Reggie’s head instead of his knees, three people very dear to him would still be alive.

  … the subhumans … once they’re gone, you don’t have to give them another thought. And believe me, they’re not worth a thought after they’re gone.

  More kicking …

  “I can’t believe I let you live!”

  Panting, he stopped and stood over the rasping, retching Reggie.

  Time to rectify that mistake. And never, ever would he make it again.

  As he reached for the arrow in Reggie’s throat, to drive its ugly head deeper into his neck, he heard a groan. The big guy was trying to turn over.

  Jack took a step toward him. “And who the fuck are you, by the way?”

  Big Guy had arrived too late to hurt Bonita and Rico, but had he anything to do with Cristin? His wallet lay on the floor beside him. Jack checked it and found a driver’s license under the name Brajko Klarić. Probably real. Who’d make up a name like that?

  He tossed it onto the keys and was turning back to Reggie when something caught his eye. A key fob … the familiar symbol on it stopped him cold. He picked it up for a closer look. No … couldn’t be …

  He slumped as he stared at it.

  “Oh, no … oh, no…”

  He was holding a piece of Cristin … made into a key fob.

  Jack retched.

  Here it was … the final proof that those were Reggie’s arrow wounds in Cristin. And this guy, this Brajko Klarić was there too … had cut off Cristin’s tattoo, cut off her hands … probably raped her too.

  Brajko Klarić groaned as he flopped onto his back. His eyes showed no fear, only hate for Jack.

  “You will die,” he rasped.

  “Will I?”

  Jack looked around for something, anything that would hurt him, maim him, damage him like he’d damaged Cristin.

  Arrows … yes, the arrows.

  Still on his knees, he grabbed one and rammed it into Brajko Klarić’s left eye. His scream was music.

  “Was that how Cristin screamed?”

  Jack found another. Brajko Klarić’s right eye was squeezed shut. No problem. Jack shoved the arrowhead through the lid and into the eye beneath.

  Another scream—a long undulating openmouthed wail.

  “Shut up!”

  Jack grabbed a third shaft and plunged the point into his mouth, lodging the two-bladed head deep in the tissues at the back of his throat.

  Brajko Klarić bucked and kicked and spasmed and choked and gagged as blood filled his mouth. He had both hands on the shaft, trying to pull it out, but those big barbed blades were staying right where they were.

  Jack rose and stepped back and watched him die.

  It took a while.

  Not nearly long enough.

  When it was done, he turned back to Reggie. The subhuman lay on his back with blood pooling under his head—not a lot, nothing life threatening. By some miracle the arrowhead had misse
d the big arteries.

  Too bad.

  Jack hunted around until he found Rico’s machete. He checked the edge—nicely honed. This would do.

  He waved it before Reggie’s fear-filled eyes.

  Reggie couldn’t seem to make any sounds except harsh, breathy rasps, but his mouth was working as if he was trying to say something. Finally …

  “No!”

  The arrow must have cut something speech related in his throat. His voice had no volume, no tone. More like air hissing out of a cut hose.

  “For the moment we’ll put aside the atrocities you committed here. Let’s focus on the girl you raped, tortured, dismembered, and splashed with acid. Remember her? The one they called the Ditmars Dahlia?”

  “Just a whore,” he said in his steam-hiss voice. “A nobody.”

  “Not to me. She had a name: Cristin. And she was a friend … a very dear friend.”

  And now the fear turned to horror. Weak as he was, with an arrow shaft jutting from his throat, Reggie tried to scrabble away on his back.

  “Don’t leave. I’m just getting started. How about I do to you what you did to her? You cut off her hands. Let’s start there. After that, I’ll find some acid for your face. I’m sure Rico has something around that will do the job.”

  Jack wasn’t sure of anything right now. He was out of control and he knew it. But every time he tried to get a grip he’d see Bonita or Rico lying dead with Reggie’s shafts protruding from them, and then the dark would retake the helm.

  Reggie’s cry was more leaking steam.

  “You want to say something? Don’t bother. Nothing you can say will change what’s going to happen here.”

  He raised his hand and Jack swung the machete at it. Looking to lop it off at the wrist. At the last second he angled the blade upward so it would miss.

  What am I doing?

  If he cut off Reggie’s hand he might not be able to stop the bleeding. Reggie would die. And as much as a dead Reggie was all Jack wanted in the world right now, this wasn’t the time.

  Not yet … not yet …

  Because Reggie had had no beef with Cristin. He and the other guy had been put up to it. But by whom?