Sworn to the Night (The Wisdom's Grave Trilogy Book 1) Page 8

  “The Rothster!” called a voice to his left. “My man! Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.”

  Scottie Pierce, lantern-jawed and whipcord-lean in a pinstripe vest, swooped in with a leering smile. They clasped hands, then fist-bumped.

  “As if I’d miss it. Christ, between the job and the wife, I needed this trip. Not to mention this Monticello bullshit.”

  “Hear you loud and clear, good buddy. So is the Tribeca thing still happening? Because I just cut an import deal with this Saudi trust-fund kid. His family’s all up in the oil biz, and he’s looking for property in the city. I’d love to play matchmaker, hook you guys up.”

  “Done deal,” Richard said. “Hey, on that note, got a little present for you.”

  He waved Scottie off to the sidelines. They stood in the glow of the hearth, pinned between the fire’s heat and the cool wind blowing in from the deck.

  “Rehabilitation Dynamics of America. Buy. Go in big.”

  Scottie tilted his head. “You nuts? Their stock’s been in the toilet for months.”

  “Word is, certain friends of our friends got involved, know what I mean? The feds are about to renew their contract and they’ll be opening five more facilities in the next couple of years. The announcement is next week, so grab as much stock as you can before the inevitable bounce-back.”

  “Booyah.” Scottie snapped his fingers. “Thanks for the tip. Good money in locking people up. People who aren’t us. People in general, you know, I don’t discriminate.”

  A bear of a man in a powder-blue jacket threw his arms around their shoulders. He wore his thinning hair in a spiky, stringy comb-over.

  “Brothers!” Tucker boomed. “That’s what makes this fellowship of learned gentlemen so great. No discrimination.”

  “It’s true,” Scottie said. “We’re a bastion of tolerance, and social justice, and whatever else I have to say to get college chicks to blow me.”

  “‘Chicks’ is sexist,” Richard told him. “The proper term is ‘unpaid intern.’”

  “I stand humbly corrected. Tucker, why are you gracing us with your body-spray-laden presence?”

  “Just got back from Havana. If you guys feel like indulging in some top-tier and entirely illegally imported stogies, join me out on the deck later.”

  “Yeah, we’ll do that.” Scottie watched Tucker leave, waiting until he was out of earshot. “Bro. Seriously. Cuban cigars have been warmed-over dogshit for years. They overworked the damn soil. ‘Aw, look at me, I just went to Cuuuba! My dad’s an ambaaasador! I had dinner at the Whiiite House!’”

  “You do not like that man,” Richard observed, sipping his cognac.

  “Lodge legacy, got everything handed to him on a plate. Guys like us had to make sacrifices to get to the top. We put in the hours. Also, I think he wants to sleep with me.”

  “You think everybody wants to sleep with you.”

  “It’s true.” Scottie pantomimed grabbing his crotch, batting his eyes at Richard. “C’mon, you want a piece of this and you know it, big boy.”

  Richard rolled his eyes and deadpanned, “What happens at the lodge, stays at the lodge…”

  The overhead lights dimmed.

  “Aw, shit,” Scottie said with a chuckle. “Speaking of, looks like it’s popping off now.”

  The last of the men shuffled in from the deck and shut the door in their wake. The gathering milled in eager, restless silence, waiting. One stepped forward: Westwood, a thin-faced man with hair the color of sand, a crimson stola draped over the shoulders of his tailored jacket. The nod to old-world culture held swirling designs in gold thread along its length. Astrological symbols and images drawn from books on renaissance alchemy added a hint of the mystical. He raised his hands high with his fingers spread wide.

  “Hail, brethren!”

  Richard raised his glass, joining the full-throated shout from the gathering. “Hail, Orgiophant!”

  “We gather as those who seek and those who dare,” Westwood intoned, “those who risk all to pierce the cosmic veil and plunder the riches of the unseen world. Do you vow to uphold the creed of our ordo and defend your fellow brethren against all who oppose them? To stand strong and without fear as we make our will manifest?”

  “I do,” came the solemn response.

  Westwood smiled and fiddled with his glasses.

  “Well, let’s get this show on the road, then,” he said. “Oh, hey, first order of business. If you haven’t yet, get in on that shrimp spread at the banquet table. Brother Steve’s restaurant did the catering tonight, and it is the fucking bomb.”

  “Truth,” Scottie murmured, “that is some damn fine shrimp cocktail.”

  Westwood’s smile faded. “Second order of business. You’ve all heard about the situation in Monticello. Needless to say, that property is radioactive now—”

  “Yeah,” Richard called out from the back, “thanks for that, assholes. Somebody want to tell me who decided to make a snuff movie where we hide our shit? That lot is in my company’s name. I’ve got cleaners working around the clock to clear out the other three stash houses before anyone comes sniffing around.”

  Tucker raised a sheepish hand.

  “It wasn’t for kicks,” he said as every eye looked his way. “I was on site, overseeing the new ink shipment, and the caretakers caught this guy snooping around the grounds. So we brought him downstairs and asked him a few questions.”

  “And what have we learned?” Westwood asked him.

  “He was a shooter for the Five Families, but he had one of those tats on his wrist, the kind Prince Berith’s servants get. Half of those mob guys are working for the courts of hell these days, whether they know it or not. He knew it. That’s all he knew, though—he was prowling around on nothing but a rumor, no evidence, trying to sniff out our pipeline.”

  Scottie slapped his palm to his forehead. “So you tortured the guy to death, then left his body ten feet from our drug stash? Jesus, Tucker, you’re a bigger moron than the caretakers. At least they had the brains to go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “Sorry,” Tucker said, glowering.

  “As Brother Richard noted,” Westwood said, “we’re currently in damage-control mode. All of our remaining ink supplies are being moved here, for safekeeping—”

  “I thought we didn’t shit where we eat,” called out a man from the crowd.

  “In a perfect world,” Westwood said, “we don’t. This is a temporary measure. Our loss, thanks to the confiscation, was in the six-figure range.”

  Scottie snickered. “For some of you poor chumps, that’s real money. Tucker.”

  “Hey,” Tucker said, “let’s put the blame where it belongs, huh? The cops didn’t come to Monticello looking for the drugs or the dead guy. You know exactly why.”

  Scottie stood closer to Richard, a protective gesture, and shook his head.

  “It’s handled,” he said. “I’ve got somebody on the force. The kind you can buy that stays bought. That investigation is going nowhere.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Tucker demanded.

  “If I’m wrong, I’ll know about it the second the wind changes. We aren’t the mafia, boys. We don’t need to ask anybody’s permission to light up a nosy cop or two. Or three. Or five. Whatever. Point is, the investigation’s stalled. The case is limper than somebody’s steroid-shriveled impotent dick.” Scottie paused. “Tucker.”

  Tucker spun on his heel. He waded through the crowd, balling his hands into fists. Scottie grinned and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. A pack of their lodge brothers got between them fast, pushing Tucker back until he calmed down. Westwood’s shoulders slumped as he grimaced.

  “Please, brothers,” Westwood called over the simmering din. “It’s time for tonight’s ceremony. We must stand united to earn the favor of our patrons. They who have blessed us, enriched us, and showered us with bounty.”

  A hush fell over the lodge. Tucker shook off the last of the men holding him back. He turn
ed to face Westwood and smoothed his jacket’s lapels.

  “Hail,” Westwood called out, “to all the Kings of Man. Blessed be their works and mysteries. Blessed be their delicious ruin.”

  “Blessed be,” responded a roomful of voices in unison.

  Westwood hooked his raised fingers into claws. The brethren did the same, every arm held high.

  “And hail, first and foremost, to the King of Wolves,” Westwood proclaimed. “Hail to our lord and master, our glorious teacher, he who separates predator from prey, who separates conqueror from the conquered. May our hunt be a glorious one and pleasing to his turquoise eye.”

  He whipped down his hands and clawed at the air. The gathered men did the same, moving as one, sleeves rustling swift and sharp.

  Westwood walked to a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall beside the crackling fireplace. The screen flickered to life. The television gave a security camera’s view of a cell, gray-walled and cramped. A woman in a ragged cotton shift sat crouched in the corner, her back to the wall, knees drawn up tight to her chest. Her long black hair was matted and stringy, her cheeks stained with tear-streaked mascara. She rocked from side to side. No sound, but her lips moved in an endless babbling prayer.

  “Tonight’s offering is a prostitute from Hoboken,” Westwood said. “Early twenties, addicted to heroin but currently two weeks from her last dosage and recovering quite nicely. No other infirmities. For the gambling sportsmen among us, I will now open the betting pool.”

  Twelve

  The Hunting Wall stood in what used to be the zoo’s monkey house. A long rack of aluminum, hung with hooks and wires and tiny shelves, bearing a cornucopia of death. Mallets, meat cleavers, butcher knives. In silence, by tradition, the brethren lined up in order of seniority to choose their weapons. Scottie’s favorite was waiting for him: a kendo bokken, the long wooden sword carved from stout oak. Richard’s bokken hung right below it, each blunt blade seared with their initials at the base of the hilt.

  “You follow my lead on the betting? The four-to-six-minute bracket?” Scottie whispered as they plucked their weapons from the wall.

  “Yeah,” Richard murmured, “what’s the angle?”

  Scottie shot a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Just watch. It was my turn to set up the course for tonight. Had a little brainstorm.”

  As Westwood led the procession out into the night, Scottie strolled alone through the monkey house. He passed a steel door secured by a keypad lock, then strolled down a long corridor. Old animal cages lined the hallway, converted into tiny prison cells with Plexiglas walls. Another keypad beeped and a cell door whispered open.

  “C’mon out,” Scottie said to the woman in the corner. “It’s okay. C’mon.”

  She looked up at him, teary-eyed. He held out a reassuring hand. She didn’t take it.

  “Look,” he said. “You can either die here and now, or you can take a chance. You take a chance, maybe you can go home tonight. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  She blinked. “H-home?”

  “Home.”

  She reached out. He took her hand, gentle, and eased her to her bare and unsteady feet.

  “See,” he said softly. “It’s okay. C’mon.”

  He walked her down the corridor, past the empty Hunting Wall, and outside. She squinted up at the stars and sucked down the clean night air.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked him.

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t understand. I mean, you literally don’t have the capacity to understand it. But it’s all for a good cause. Now, here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to run. We’re going to give you a thirty-second head start.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” Scottie said, “me and twenty or so of my best buddies are going to hunt you down. And we’re going to kill you. But hold on! No tears, there’s a silver lining. The zoo gate is unlocked. If you cross the line, make it to the parking lot…you win. We’ll let you go.”

  It was his favorite lie. Twice, a sacrificial offering had actually made it to the gate. The look on their faces when it didn’t budge was priceless. Scottie pointed to the left, toward a rare spot of light in the gloom, somewhere on the far edge of the zoo.

  “Fair is fair, so I’m going to give you a tip. See the spotlight? Right in the middle of the light, there’s a revolver. You know how to use a gun?”

  Her head bobbed a little, her entire body trembling.

  “It’s a risk-reward deal, get it? If you go for the gun, we’ll see you. But, hey, you’ll have a gun. None of us do.” He patted his wooden sword. “Just blunts and blades. The kind that won’t kill fast. Or easy. So, up to you whether to go for it or not, but if I was in your place—and thank fuck I’m not—I’d want an edge to even things up. Just remember: there’s only six bullets and twenty of us, so you’d better make each shot count.”

  The revolver, that part was true. The gun was even loaded. What was a hunt without a little risk? Worst-case scenario, he thought, I’ll just stand behind Tucker.

  “Okay,” he said, “time to play. Go on. Run.”

  She wavered on her feet. “Please. Don’t…don’t do this. You don’t have to do this—”

  Scottie’s face contorted into a mask of feral rage. He grabbed the bokken in both hands, swinging it high above his head as he screamed, “Run!”

  She ran. Scottie broke into a snickering laugh, tugged his phone from his pocket, and tapped the icon for a custom app. The zoo speakers crackled to life all over the park, vibrating with a booming bass-horn drone. Then an automated voice began a countdown: “Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.”

  At the count of zero, cackles and raw animal howls split the air. The lodge went hunting. Tiny packs and lone wolves spread out along the pebbled paths. They swept wide, pantomiming blade slashes and gnashing their teeth in anticipation. The men wore their true faces now. No need for civilization, no need for social structures or play-acting. They were beasts. This was their hunting ground. Fresh meat was on the run.

  Scottie and Richard ran together in silence. They always did. They had the wind in their faces and their weapons in hand, tracking their prey by the rustle of her footfalls and the scent of her skin. Words weren’t necessary.

  * * *

  She was going to make it. Every stumbling step was agony, the rough walk biting into her bare feet, each ragged breath a burning stitch in her side, but she wasn’t going to give up. She’d never given up in her life, through the worst the world could throw at her. She’d survived. She had a beautiful baby girl at home, waiting for her, and damned if she wasn’t going to live to see her smile again.

  Men hooted behind her, footsteps fast and pounding along the tangled maze of pathways. The gun. She needed the gun. No, she couldn’t kill them all, but one shot and the rest would scatter. She could hold them off long enough to reach the gate. It was her only chance.

  Up ahead, there it was. A small stone pedestal stood centered beneath the circle of light, in a patch of overgrown grass. The revolver, a heavy .357 with a taped grip, shone like the holy grail. A hundred feet to salvation. She closed in fast, digging deep. She was going to live—

  The bear trap, hidden in the grass just outside the circle of light, slammed shut with a bone-shattering snap. She shrieked as she fell to the ground. A streak of raw agony burned up her leg as the rusted steel teeth tore skin and chewed at her marrow. Looking to the pedestal, she still didn’t give up. She clawed her way across the grass, pulling herself on her hands, straining inch by torturous inch.

  Scottie stood in front of her. He looked down and shook his head.

  “I said the gun was here. I never said it’d be easy to get.” He glanced up, past her, as the thunder of footsteps closed in from all around. “Hey! Watch your footing, there are ten other traps scattered all over the grass. Careful now.”

  Her head sagged. Her last candle-flicker of hope died. She didn’t have the breath to weep.

  “For what it’s wor
th,” Scottie told her, “you lasted five minutes and twenty-seven seconds. That’s not bad. Better than most. Westwood, you want to do your thing?”

  The older man stepped up, hands raised in benediction.

  “King of Wolves, we commend unto you this sacrifice. Receive it in lust and delight, and smile upon our enterprises, that we may continue to prosper in fortune and power.”

  Scottie raised his wooden sword high.

  “A-fuckin’-men,” he said and brought it crashing down.

  * * *

  They took their time with her. Panting, exhausted, their hunger slaked, the winners of the hunt earned handshakes and patted backs from the brethren who arrived too late for the kill. It was their duty, as the losers, to clean up the scene and prepare the victim’s body for disposal.

  The King of Wolves had taken his meal and enjoyed his sacrifice. What remained was nothing more than garbage to be dumped.

  Richard crouched over a rubber hose in the monkey house. He sprayed down his bokken, washing away blood and matted clumps of hair. He watched it all sluice down the floor drain as his hands faded from scarlet to ruddy pink. In these moments, after a victorious hunt, he felt…quiet. Satisfied. The only time he really did, he supposed. Life was good. His world was good.

  He tapped in the keypad and took a stroll down the corridor of cells. Most of them stood empty, waiting for fresh offerings. All but the one on the end.

  She was a rare one. She hadn’t broken, hadn’t given in to fear or despair like most of the others. She spent most of her waking hours pacing the tiny straw-scattered floor. Getting ready for a fight, he supposed. Good spirit. The ones before her, the broken ones, had given up and sat starving in their own filth until the hunt began. This one had eaten every scrap they’d tossed her, like a feral animal, and had torn pieces from her shift to clean herself. He stood outside her cell, a wall of reinforced Plexiglas between them.

  She turned his way, eyes fierce, and tossed back her mane of cobalt hair.