KROUN
WHITEY felt himself relaxing for the first time in what seemed like months. It was as though he'd been holding his breath and could finally let it out.
He laughed. God, he felt great.
Sprawled on the floor, he grinned up at Michael, who looked sick. Stick-in-the-mud Mike had no time for real fun. This kind of euphoria would be wasted on him. Broder? Forget it. What about that skinny bartender?
"Hey, you, c'mere." He tried to wave him over. "Set 'em up... drinks are on me."
The man only stared. He must be able to see the monster, and it scared him.
That was damned funny. Whitey tried to explain it to him, but the words tumbled out too fast, slurring and blending into each other. There were so many words in his head that he couldn't say them all. That many crowding in there would make his brain explode. He kept talking to get them out.
And his head was... not hurting, but something was muddled within, verging on dizziness. A thousand bees buzzed behind his ears, swarming and spinning, banging against the inside of his skull, trying to escape. Noisy bastards.
He tried to get up, but Broder slammed him flat. Must have forgotten who was boss here. Whitey suddenly rolled clear and stood, rounding on him, still grinning. The man seemed surprised, but pulled out his gun.
That was funny, too.
"You should go on the radio," Whitey told him. He swatted at the gun, slapping it from Broder's grip; it spun across the room, cracking heavily on the marble tile.
"Whitey?"
He pointed at Mike. "You, too." He aimed himself at the bar and somehow his feet got him there. "Set 'em up. Beer for everyone." He fumbled for money, fingers clumsy. He snapped the money clip like a dry twig. Fifties and hundreds exploded across the bar top.
The bartender seemed not to notice the expensive mess. His mouth shaped itself into a brittle smile. "Mr. Kroun, your table is ready. Please take a seat, and I'll bring you your drink."
Whitey liked this one. "You've earned your tip, boy. Where izzit?"
"Just over there, sir." He pointed to a chair.
"Don't like it. Too far away from company. Serve 'em up here." He slapped the bar with the flat of his hand. Look at all the money. "You play poker?"
"Yes, sir. Would you like me to arrange a game?"
He took in the others. "We got enough players... but I want some fun first. Li'l dancing, some laughs, where's my damn drink?"
The man hastily drew a beer.
"Escott," said Mike, addressing the 'tender, "what the hell are you doing?"
"Humoring him. Please stay back."
Whitey wrapped both hands around the glass. He couldn't feel them, had to look to be sure they closed. He downed half his drink. It was cold, but the taste... he doubled over, retching.
"What kind of rat piss you serving here?" he demanded after spitting out the last disgusting drop. He threw the glass, but Escott ducked. The shelving behind him shattered as though struck by a bullet.
Someone grabbed Whitey from behind. Broder again, but he seemed to be moving in syrup. Whitey avoided his fist, and gave him payback with interest. Broder staggered drunkenly and toppled.
How about that? Barely tapped him.
"Mike, you need to hire a better class of-"
Escott quit the bar, going to the two women behind Mike. Whitey hadn't noticed them, they'd been so quiet. One of them was pretty. A real humdinger. Escott seemed hell-bent on hustling them out the door.
"No need to get greedy. There's plenty to go around," Whitey told him, and suddenly he was between them and the exit. Now they all seemed to be suspended in syrup, moving so slowly-that was funny, too. The looks they had... Escott had gone dead white, and Mike was outright dumbfounded.
The girl, well, she needed cheering up. Her face was blotchy, tears brimming and falling from red, swollen eyes, but still a humdinger of a twist. You didn't need to look at what was on top to enjoy the rest.
"C'mere, cutie. Let's go someplace else, we can have a good time."
Mike had his gun out, sighting down the barrel at him.
"No need to be like that. C'mon, Mikey. Look at me." Whitey spread his arms, smiling at his too-serious little brother. "Put that away."
Very strangely, Mike did just as he was told. His blue eyes were wide open, yet at the same time he looked asleep on his feet.
Whitey glanced at Escott, but he was busy hauling the women backward, urging them on. He sure was intent on getting them into the main room of the club-and the place wasn't even open.
Whitey put himself in their way again, gave Escott and the old bat a shove, cutting the little cutie out of the herd. She screeched, but a hand over her mouth shut that off quick enough. He hauled her easily along the curving hall into the dark, where they could have some privacy. The others were moving so slow it'd take them hours to catch up.
No more dark. Every light in the place abruptly blazed on.
"We're in time for the show," he told the girl. One sweep of his leg was all it took. She was on the floor, he dropped on top of her, and, damn, she smelled good. Especially there on the side of her neck...
She wasn't interested, kept squirming and fighting. She tried to knee him, but he shifted and slapped that out of her. Women just didn't know what was good for them. He'd have to show her. A little of this and that, and she'd settle down; they all did. First, get that coat open, now push up the dress, see what this one had for him.
She hissed and clawed his face, and the sharp burns from her nails cut through his haze of good feeling. He pulled away, startled.
Get off her!
Who was that? He looked around, but no one was near.
"Nelly, get away-now!"
Someone had used his voice to yell at the girl. What in hell-?
She slipped out from under him. He tried to grab at her, but something slowed him down. He was only able to catch her ankle. He twisted and pulled and was on top of her, this time pinning her hands. He could smell her terror and his blood and by God, it was good.
A sudden stab of pain on the left side of his head came out of nowhere.
Get off her, dammit!
His vision fluttered, and for a moment he couldn't move. The girl pushed her way clear, rolling.
He shook off whatever it was, found his feet, and got in front of her again, keeping her from running. She was within reach, but he hesitated.
Let her go.
"Why should I?"
Because this is wrong.
"What the hell's that mean?"
Back away. Let her go.
"Who are you? Ramsey?" It didn't sound like Ramsey's voice, and it was close, as though someone were speaking right in his ear. Where were they? This wasn't the cabin.
She darted past him, and that seemed to break the spell. He caught and dragged her close, her back pressed to him. She bent forward, fighting, but he wrapped one arm around her body to hold her tight and pulled her head to one side with the other. He nuzzled her sweet throat. He heard her blood roaring, felt its thrum with his lips. He wanted to bite into that taut flesh and just taste her-
"Whitey!" A man's bellow cut across the room.
He paused, annoyed. Escott was just coming in, but stopped short, one arm raised, something in his hand.
What is it with all the guns?
Whitey threw him an exasperated look. Before he could speak, Escott fired.
The bullet went high and wide, but Whitey recoiled at the sound. The girl squealed, getting away.
Escott took her hand, and they retreated up the hall. Whitey wavered over who to deal with: the little humdinger or the shooter who needed to be taught a lesson. Never pull a gun unless you can kill on the first shot.
Might as well take care of him. Chase off the distractions, then he could show the sweet thing how to have a real party.
The lobby was a mess: blood on the floor, broken glass, what a sty. Broder, shaking his head like a punchy boxer, was only just picking himself up. He'd be trouble once he got rid of the cobwebs. Mike seemed to be waking, too, blinking, confused. What'd happened to him?
The girl was back in the arms of the old lady; Escott was in front of them both, gun pointed squarely at Whitey.
This was ridiculous. Whitey tried to tell him as much, but it was hard to talk. Those damned bees were buzzing so loud a man couldn't hear himself.
Escott yelled at Mike, his words distorted.
"Not done with you yet," Whitey promised the girl, winking.
Yes, you are.
He heard that clearly, despite the bees. It sounded like his own voice, but that was crazy.
"Whitey!"
My name's Gabe.
But he turned his head.
Mike was fully awake, his gun aimed and steady.
Whitey knew he could stop him again. A quick glance, a single sharp order, and he could-
No more.
He looked steadily into his brother's eyes. Mike could only see the monster, though. Gabriel made it hold still and used its voice.
"Do it, Michael."
"I don't want this," Mike whispered.
"I know." The monster forced Gabriel to take a step forward, then another. "But it's all right."
"Stop."
"I can't." One more, and he'd grab that gun and feed it to Mike the hard way. "Now, Michael."
"I-"
"Now, dammit!"
Mike's gun roared. In midreach Whitey felt another kick-this one much harder-against his chest, but he fooled them all and kept standing. He had a new hole in his suit, high on the right side. Fresh blood spilled out, and there was a corresponding flow down his back.
He threw a grin at Mike. "What you got in that thing? Rock salt?"
He coughed. It hurt.
He thought to draw a breath and couldn't quite fill his lungs. Must be a cold coming on. Another cough. A knot of blood splattered on the floor. He stared at it, wondering how that had happened.
The air was too thick, that was all. Too thick to breathe. He didn't need to, anyway. Good party trick, impress the girls.
There was a pressure around his chest like a steel ring; it was shrinking tight against his ribs. That wasn't right...
"Mike?" He was smart. He'd know what to do.
Whitey felt feverish. Sweat popped out over him. His body was baking inside his hot skin.
He clawed at his tie, dragging it off, tore at the top buttons of his shirt. Still too hot. He fumbled with the suit-coat buttons, but his fingers weren't working. Tremors jerked through them and up his arms. One of them was bleeding. What the hell? He couldn't feel it. There was that awful pressure squeezing his chest, though. What was happening?
"Mike?"
But his brother didn't speak, didn't move.
"I forgot something. What is it?" He'd spoken clearly. Mike had to have heard.
Whitey felt another coughing bout coming on. A bad one, so bad that his legs couldn't hold him. He awkwardly folded to his knees. Then the floor came at him. He tried to push it away and only ended up on his back again. The ceiling spun, the lights there too bright.
Broder started in on him, kicking him. That was what it felt like. But he kept well clear. Whitey's body thrashed and spasmed all on its own. Convulsions. They were tearing him apart.
He bit his tongue, tasted blood, heard gagging noises. His body stopped flailing on the floor, but the poison was still in him, oozing through his blood. The growing pressure around his chest would crush him from the inside out.
He became aware of the others, one in particular, the shivering girl with the dark hair. He reached toward her, though she was too far away.
She whimpered, clinging to the other woman.
The monster was scaring them. That was wrong. He pulled his arm back. His clutching hand turned into a fist, and he drew it tight against his aching chest so there was no chance of accidentally touching her. He nearly echoed her whimper, but shut it down. Show weakness, and Sonny would beat it out of him. The bastard could smell it.
Gabriel couldn't remember the beatings, but the monster did. The monster loved Sonny.
The steely pressure on his chest worsened, slowly crowding out his lungs. He had to say something, say it quick before his air was gone. He gasped like a fish, trying not to cough.
Where was she?
His sought her eyes, willing her to-
Look at me!
He managed to croak her name. She looked up, and he put his last effort into it; desperation got him past the surface mask to the soul inside. Vital, but damaged, trying to heal, hardly able to limp from one day to the next-how could she live like that?
I hurt you. I'm sorry... I'm sorry.
But his lungs were crushed flat.
He couldn't get the words out. He never would.
He stopped moving altogether. The feeling was much like his day sleep, his active mind trapped within a dead body.
He heard weeping. That would be Nelly Cabot, crying in her mother's arms.
"It's over, honey," the older woman murmured. "It's all over. He can't hurt you anymore."
It was true. The monster was gone.
Gabriel was alone.
He drifted in the red shadows behind sealed eyelids.
People were nearby, but he was detached from their concerns like a stranger overhearing a private conversation. It was interesting for the moment, but he had no real care for the goings-on around him.
Someone put a hand on his throat, fingers resting on the pulse point for a long time.
"He's dead," said Broder.
Michael muttered a curse and walked away a few steps. His shoes crunched against broken glass, then there was the slosh of liquid. He choked on his drink and cursed again, and it almost sounded like a sob.
No one spoke for a time. Gabe had the impression they were in some kind of shock.
Mrs. Cabot broke the silence. "What was the matter with him? He go crazy? How could he move so fast?"
"The drug did that," Escott promptly answered. "Cocaine can be a very powerful stimulant."
"He used the stuff," said Michael, his voice thick, "but not all the time. He kept it quiet. If you didn't know to look, you just didn't know. But the last year... he got bad. He'd go off on 'fishing trips' to shoot dope. That's what he called them."
Mrs. Cabot snarled in disgust.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I thought he was only hurting himself. I swear, I did not know about your daughter. Broder should have told me."
"Why, so you can blame my girl?"
"No, I-"
"We don't want nothin' more to do with you. Just leave us alone."
"Yes, ma'am. I promise."
"One of you get us home, and that's the end of it."
"I'll drive them," said Escott. He was over by the bar now.
"What are you doing?" Mike asked.
"Your brother has no need of it." There was a rustle of shuffling paper. "I'm sure the ladies won't mind a small monetary compensation for the hell they've been put through tonight."
Mike grunted.
The door was opened. "Ladies, if you would? The green car just around the corner."
They shuffled past Gabe's body. Cold outside air flowed over him.
"Will you have sufficient time before I return?" Escott asked.
"He'll be gone," Mike said.
"You've made arrangements?"
"You could say."
The door closed. Shortly after, a motor turned over. A car rattled past the front entry and faded.
Mike must have been holding his breath. He choked out another curse and had another drink.
"It had to be done," Broder rumbled.
"Why'd I have to be the one to do it?"
"Just how things work. Stay here, get drunk. I'll deal with him."
"It's a two-man job. He's my responsibility. You shouldn't have kept quiet about this. Should have told me."
"Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."
"Him shooting the dope I could deal with, but not him hurting women like the old bastard."
"I kept an eye on him. If he stepped out of line, I was gonna-"
"Kill him?"
"Tried to. Would have saved you from it."
"But... he seemed to want me to do it. Did you see? At the end?"
"Yeah, Mike. He knew. He was crazy-sick like you said. No cure for that kind of thing. It's over now."
Neither spoke after that. Broder went outside briefly and returned, then Mike shut the lights off. The red shadows went black.
They lifted Gabe's body and carried him into the cold, dropping him heavily into... he wasn't sure what until the trunk lid slammed down. The car grumbled to life, and they began moving. Start-stop, start-stop, they must be hitting every signal between here and... where were they going?
Gabe couldn't bring himself to worry about it. He floated within the boundaries of his skull and decided being dead wasn't too objectionable. At least he wasn't having those dreams. That might change when the sun came up, but again, it just wasn't important. They hit a smooth road, and he drifted off.
The car began to jolt and jounce, sometimes skidding.
It was enough to wake Gabe from his long doze.
His chest itched. So did his left shoulder. He couldn't move to scratch either annoyance, though he tried hard to do so.
Damned drug. He was bogged down in its sluggish flow.
A sharp turn, and, though the car crawled along, the jouncing increased. His inert body slipped about in the trunk, unresponsive.
They stopped, the motor died, its growl replaced by the sound of wind sighing through pine boughs.
He was back in that dream of absolute peace and calm. He was safe. Here there were no monsters wearing his face to trouble him or anyone else.
After an indeterminate time, he was taken from the trunk and carried a distance. They left him on his back on raw, bare ground. He floated in cold shadows while the others got on with their own concerns.
None of it had to do with him, even when the first heavy wedge of damp earth slapped over his face.