Strange City Page 3

  "Take us home," Delfonso said quietly.

  "We are finished tonight?"

  "Yes," Delfonso answered. "I'm afraid I no longer have an appetite."

  Hunter's Blues

  by Scott Ciencin

  They had to shout to make themselves heard over the sound of the chopper's blades and their own weapons fire. Larry and Joe didn't mind. Getting used to the noise had been no more dif­ficult than acclimating themselves to the freezing cold temperatures and hostile living conditions in northern Alaska. Both men were used to making changes. In their business, they were constantly reminded of the old adage: adapt or perish. Younger, stronger, and faster competitors came out of the woodwork on a daily basis, yet Larry and |oe were survivors.

  They were professionals.

  "You remember Sienkevitch?" Larry asked as he switched to a scope rifle and took aim at a fleeing form below. "That asshole from Corpus Christi? Said he was the best hitter in the Lone Star state."

  Joe nodded. "That one."

  "Hang on," Larry said. It had taken him a little while to get used to the harness that allowed him to sit with his feet dangling out of the helicopter's pas­senger side. His first few shots this way had been misses, but he quickly got the hang of it. He was 6'2", with blocky features and pockmarked skin. His black hair was slicked back and held in a ponytail. Joe teased him that he was trying to look like Steven Seagal. Larry didn't care. "Got me some easy money down here."

  Below, the glaring, white carpet of snow was not enough to hide the frantic movements of a light-gray wolf and the animal's nightmare-black companion. Larry squeezed the trigger and the head of the gray wolf exploded. The black wolf that had been running beside the fallen creature stopped suddenly and let out a howl that cut through the screaming winds and the monotonous sounds of the helicopter.

  "What did you load that thing with?" )oe asked. He was a little shorter than his companion, with a shock of red hair, doughy features, and an honest-to-God dimple. His professional name was "The Choirboy." Larry was known as "The Pilot" for a job early in his career. Both men were in their mid-forties.

  "I tried out some hollow points."

  "Damn. Well, there's the last one. Big son of a bitch. He's all mine."

  "Have at it, partner." Larry settled back in his har­ness and allowed Joe to get comfortable. Beneath them, the black wolf obligingly padded around the body of its dead companion in aimless circles. The chopper pilot held their position. "Anyway, like I was starting to say, this guy, Sienkevitch."

  "Right. The asshole from Corpus Christi."

  "He's like, what, twenty-three years old. Thinks he knows everything. Going on and on about how crisp and clean he makes his kills, how he gets to know them so well, even bought his last one a drink in some bar an hour before he ran him down on the street."

  "Gotcha." ]oe readied his automatic weapon. He wanted to wait until the black wolf looked up. Then he was going to turn the creature into pulp, just as they had the other seven members of the pack they had stalked this morning. Their agent, Old Lou the Repairman, said the boys needed to get away from it all. He suggested they take a rest cure somewhere, try to unwind. Their last couple of assignments had been performed with such enthusiasm that even Old Lou was taken aback. Larry and loe said they were just doing their jobs. Old Lou changed his tune a little, said he respected that and wanted to reward them. So here they were in Alaska, doing for fun what they nor­mally did for $I00,000 a head:

  Spilling blood.

  "I told this snot he didn't have to be so anal. Most times, you got to take someone out; they pretty much help you do it. People are idiots."

  "Got that right," Joe said, waiting patiently for the wolf to look up at him.

  "I made a bet with this dick. I told him, I had this guy to get rid of the next day. Simple job, no big deal. Seven or eight sticks of dynamite rigged up to his ignition. Start her up, bam, it's all over folks, one less moron eating oxygen."

  "Sure."

  "I told him, this guy's car looks like it hasn't been washed for six months. A black car, foreign. Doesn't take care of it at all. I said, before I plant the stuff, I'm gonna hot wire the car, take it through a car wash, then put it back and see if this guy notices anything different."

  "I love it."

  "Well, our pal Sienkevitch, he says, of course the guy's going to notice. No one could be that dumb. So we go out there together. I show him the car. It looks almost gray, there's so much muck on it. We take it out, put it through a car wash, even get one of those lemon scent things to spray around inside. Sienkevitch is Mke, gimme a break. Even if the guy's so stupid he doesn't notice the way his car's all black and shining after this wash and wax, he's gonna smell the scent and know something's up. I tell him, he's got to have a little faith in human nature."

  On the ground below, the wolf looked up. Its green eyes sparkled in the intense sunlight, loe opened up on the wolf as it bolted. Impossibly, not one of his shots connected.

  "Follow that piece of shit!" |oe commanded. The helicopter pilot was already tracking the wolf, giving the assassins a clear shot at all times. "Sorry. What happened? Who won the bet?"

  "Let's just say, when our buddy Sienkevitch went to pay the rent that month, he was a little short."

  "You sent that asshole packing."

  "To the moon, Alice. To the moon."

  )oe grinned. The black wolf was still in view. He went to single shots and started firing. This time he was cer­tain he tagged the animal at least twice. The creature flinched, but didn't stop running.

  "Better get him now," Larry said. "Son of a bitch is making for the woods."

  "I see that." ]oe fired until his clip was gone. He reached out and Larry handed him the rifle filled with hollow points, loe grabbed it and kept shooting.

  One of the shots connected. A geyser of blood blew out of the creature's side, but it kept running. Joe blinked, wondered if he was going snow blind, despite the special polarized lenses he wore. The wolf seemed to be growing, changing into something less like an animal, more like a man.

  Crazy. Not only crazy, irrelevant. He had that things head in his sights. The chopper came to a dead stop as he squeezed the trigger and his shot went wild. The wolf bolted into a copse of trees and was gone.

  "What the fuck you do that for?" )oe screamed to the pilot.

  "Chill out," Larry said. "We can't go any farther. Look up!"

  joe saw that they were on the edge of a forest. If they tried to get any closer, the chopper would crash.

  "Don't worry about it, partner. There's plenty more where that came from. Besides, the way your last shot ripped open that thing, it won't last long."

  Joe was silent as the chopper pilot took them away. He kept staring at where the wolf had disappeared. An instant before the woods went out of view, he thought he saw movement, something stumbling their way. He couldn't tell if it was an animal or a man.

  "Bothers me," )oe said. "I hate leaving a job half-finished."

  "We're here to have fun," Larry said. "Relax!"

  )oe nodded, but somehow he sensed that for the rest of their vacation, and for some time after that, the shape at the mouth of the woods was going to bring him nightmares.

  One year later.

  Desmond Willits was surprised to see the large figure framed in the cold, white morning light filtering in from the open doorway. He wondered if he had been the fool who left the club's front door unlocked. "Sorry, man, the Blue Note Cafe won't be open again until seven. You come back then, we'll serve you up something right, like some homemade jambalaya and a little music to soothe the soul."

  The figure did not retreat. There was something familiar in his shape. Desmond studied the fall of his wild hair and the manner in which the intruder carried himself—shoulders pushed forward, head down a lit­tle, like a fighter about to take someone on. Desmond had been a fighter once, when he was younger. Now that he was in his seventies, the only thing he fought was his arthritis.

  "It
's me," the man in the doorway said.

  Desmond Willits felt his entire body stiffen. He hadn't heard that raspy voice in ten years. Desmond tried not to think about the past. Too much pain waited back there.

  When he was young, he had won several title bouts. Some men in fancy suits told him to take a fall during the fight that would have made him a champion. If he didn't, his wife, Bobbi, would find out what life was like when you didn't have any arms or legs. The money he earned allowed him to open the Blue Note, which had gone on to become the oldest blues cafe in San Francisco. Ten years ago, when he had last heard this man's voice, his Bobbi had just died. Too much pain.

  The man stepped forward, into the light. He had blazing emerald eyes, swarthy skin, and proud, noble features. The man's chin and cheekbones were elegantly sculpted, his Cupid's lips vulnerable. Steel-tipped alli­gator boots glinted in the light, along with turquoise rings and bracelets. A flak vest revealed a host of tat­toos along his solid biceps. Above his button-fly jeans a black fishnet T-shirt covered a washboard stomach and a male model's chest.

  "It's me, Old Paw. Donovan McKinley."

  Desmond tried his best to be nonchalant. "I got eyes. You think someday you'll tell me why you call me that?"

  "Call you what?"

  "Old Paw."

  "Habit."

  The old man shook his head. "Didn't think you were ever coming back."

  "Me either. I need work, a place to stay."

  "Come right to the point, don't ya?"

  Donovan shrugged.

  "Ever wonder which side you got to thank for that?" Desmond asked. "Indian or Irish?"

  "Don't think about it much."

  "No, I imagine you don't." Desmond looked over to the stage. A set of instruments lay around in their cases. "You want some work, you got to show me what you can do."

  "Have you forgotten?"

  "Time messes with everyone," Desmond said "I got to know if you still have the old magic."

  "Fair enough." Donovan leaped onto the stage with a single, effortless stride. He took an electric guitar from its case, turned on an amp, and plugged in. After checking to see that the instrument was tuned, Donovan loosed a heavy metal riff that would have made Eddie Van Halen duck and cover.

  Desmond frowned. "What was that?"

  The guitarist smiled. "You said times change I wondered if maybe you had changed with them."

  "You wondered wrong. Now gimme some sugar, baby."

  Shaking his head, Donovan took a step back and allowed himself to feel the old rhythms. A moment later his fingers touched the frets and the sounds that came out were so mournful they reminded Desmond of a dead man weeping at midnight.

  The old man closed his eyes and let the haunting sounds wash over him for several minutes before he allowed a smile to spider across his deep brown, wrin­kled face. "That's nice, old son. Like a butterfly looking for its dead love."

  Donovan finished the tune. "Do I have the job?"

  With a half-laugh, Desmond said, "Not everyone can play the blues. You got to have hurt way down deep in your soul."

  "So nothing's changed?" Donovan asked, only a lit­tle unsure of himself.

  "I didn't say that. You're not bad. Not like you used to be, but not bad. I remember when you first came back from 'Nam. You played like that. But you got better."

  "I'm overwhelmed."

  "You want coddling, you go somewhere else. Always been the deal."

  "I need work," Donovan said.

  "You got that," the old man said. "It's the old magic you're lacking. Don't worry. Time wears on us all. You'll get it back."

  "Thanks."

  "Thing is, you couldn't have picked a better time to come back. Guy I had playing with us disappeared last night. Asian kid, coaxed the notes out of that guitar like he was kissing his lover's neck. Cleaned out his room. Didn't leave a forwarding. Damn deadbeat. You want the gig?"

  "I do."

  "It's yours."

  The images came in a jumble, a chaotic mix of dark­ness and light. One ripped from the other as if they were being reflected on the blade of an overworked scythe. He was in the wilderness, with the pack. They were on the hunt, playing, making love, singing, and dancing in the moonlight.

  A chainsaw cut to the next scene.

  The sun baked him and explosions came from above. One by one the wolves fell. Strange thoughts started to wake in his animal skull. Horrid, unwanted thoughts.

  Human thoughts.

  A painful tearing and suddenly it was just a little later. He was running beside one that might have been his brother. A final crack of thunder came from above. A torrent of blood, brains, and fangs spilled upwards.

  Assault rifles, helicopters, two-leggers, laughter, speech—all the myriad shades of damnation. He didn't want to change again and become a man. More than anything, he wanted to stay in the wild, needed to stop the process dead in its tracks, stay pure, regain what had been lost, but it was too late, his human brain was waking after its long slumber, and it was turning his heavenly dream of peace into a nightmare!

  Torture! Intolerable]

  A knock came at the door. Donovan vaulted awake, thankful that the nightmare was at an end. He raised his trembling, human hand before him, and saw that he was wrong. The nightmare of human existence was his again, and this time seemed never-ending.

  "Coming," he said as he hopped off the bed and slipped into a pair of blue jeans. The room Desmond had given him was small and poorly furnished, but it was all he needed. He went to the door and breathed in a familiar scent. Steeling himself, he opened the door.

  A beautiful, dark-haired woman stood before him. She wore sunglasses, a white shirt, a black vest, and jeans ripped at the knees. Her lips were blood red. She pursed them indecisively and leaned against the door frame.

  "Want me to come in?" she asked in a husky voice.

  Donovan stood back and allowed Melinda to enter the small bedroom. The window was lacking a cur­tain. Crossing the room, she stood before the fiery light of the sun and stretched, raising her arms high over her head. The vest fell back, allowing the full, sensuous curves of her breasts to be revealed by the light.

  Donovan was unashamed by the animal desire that rose within him. Melinda caught the way he looked at her and grinned. She would have been offended only if he was not aroused.

  "Thank you for coming," Donovan said haltingly.

  "Leitch called," Melinda said as she threw herself to the bed on her belly. Rising to her elbows, she looked up at him, certain to give him a perfect view of her ample cleavage, "i figured he was crazy. I didn't think you were ever coming back, not after what hap­pened with Calle Ann and your son."

  Donovan looked away.

  "What is it?" she asked. "The harano get you?"

  "The suffering of Gaia plagues us all."

  "Come on," she said. "Don't give me the company line. You haven't been active in the cause for a long time. Besides, this is me you're talking to. You know what I am. i see past the shadows."

  Donovan watched as Melinda rolled onto her back and looked at him upside down. She reminded him of a cat as she slowly and sensuously writhed.

  "Long drive," she said. "Could use some rest. Want to lie with me?"

  "Maybe later."

  Melinda rested her open hand on her forehead. "This is serious."

  "Yes."

  She rose to a sitting position, slipping off her sun­glasses and depositing them on the bed. "Did you take out Jimmy Wang, the guitarist? I hear he was a good kid. Hope you didn't hurt him. I mean, you used to be a healer, at least in the army. Hate to think you've gone the other way."

  "Made some calls. Got him a better gig with a band in Seattle."

  "That's my Wafeiza. No innocent blood on your hands."

  Donovan flinched. "Please. Don't call me that. Wakiza's dead. He died with my wife and child."

  Melinda reached out and caught Donovan's hands. She was determined to remain quiet until his gaze met hers. The last t
ime she had seen Donovan, he claimed that he was never coming back to the human world. Killian Cross was dead. Donovan had been cheated out of his revenge on the murderer of his wife and child by yet another Black Spiral Dancer, one that Cross had betrayed.

  Finally, Donovan looked into Melinda's ruby eyes.

  "What made you change your mind?" she asked. "Why are you here?"

  A ragged breath escaped him. The first time he had seen Melinda's eyes, he worried that she was an Enticer, a human seductress who served the Wyrm, a fomora, the enemy.

  The truth had been far stranger. Their friendship stranger still. He remembered what she told him when he confronted her about her origins: "You know what they say: I was Snow White, but I drifted."

  Donovan shrugged. "I had what I needed: peace. That was taken away. I've come here to get it back."

  "There's going to be blood, isn't there? With you, there always is."

  The dark-haired man said nothing. He lowered his head and looked away. "You didn't bring my guitar— Blue Light."

  "You're the only person I know who would give a name to a guitar."

  "It meant a lot to me. That's why I entrusted it to you before I went into the wild."

  "It's safe. I wasn't sure it was really you. I'll bring it next time."

  Donovan nodded, his gaze averted.

  Melinda released his hands. "What do you want me to do?"

  In his low, raspy voice, Donovan told her. Waiting for her reply, he went to the window and stared out at San Francisco. It was the last Saturday before Halloween. A full moon was due. That was not his auspice. His was the Galliard, the gibbous moon. No matter, it would do.

  "Will you?" he asked, breaking the silence.

  "Gee, I don't know. I might be busy. AMC's running The Princess Comes Across tonight. Carole Lombard, Fred MacMurray. I930s innocence. Hard to pass up. Though, I'll tell ya, I always thought that title sounded a little like a porn film, you know what I mean?"

  Donovan was unmoved by her attempt to lighten the mood.

  "What do you think?" Melinda said with a sigh. "You know me. I'll do anything for old times' sake."

  "Yeah, I know you." He waited a few more seconds, then glanced back at her. The room was empty. He didn't even hear her leave. The brief flickering of a smile touched his face. He whispered, "You've gotten good since I left."