Killing Rites

Chapter Thirteen

When we pulled into the slush and gravel of the parking lot, I was amazed by the number of cars. It was eight o’clock, and apparently still the height of the dinner rush. Ramón and Marcos let me out and headed back to the road with my gratitude and a sense of being relieved to be done with me. I turned and considered the front doors. I knew I looked like hell. I didn’t want word of me to spread back to Ex and Chapin, so marching straight in seemed unwise. Freezing in the parking lot was also not a great plan. I walked quickly around the side of the building. I could hear voices from inside the restaurant, shouting over the radio. The truck’s heater had taken the edge off my cold, but I was still barefoot in the snow. I needed to get into shelter.

Midian’s RV was dark but unlocked. I didn’t know what it used for a heater, but the air was warm and close. The only light was a tiny fluorescent bulb over the stovetop. Clean dishes were stacked beside the sink. A magnet with a scorpion encased in plastic pinned an envelope to the fridge. Somewhere under the sink, a water heater burbled and hissed. No one else was there.

I sat down on the little couch and cradled my feet. After a few minutes, I stumbled to the back and pulled a comforter off Midian’s bed to curl up in. I was shivering hard, my body reacting to the cold and abuse and hellish day I’d just suffered. I didn’t figure Midian would mind if I messed up his bed. The cotton and down stank of old cigarettes, but I didn’t care. I folded myself onto the miniature couchlike thing, pulled the comforter around my head, and waited to get warm. Twelve hours ago, I’d been driving in toward San Esteban.

I thought about the little condo near the ski valley. It had my clothes. My laptop. The leather backpack I used as a purse was with Ex and the priests, along with my wallet, my credit cards, my cell phone. I wondered what they were doing now. Searching for me, no doubt, but I’d always been hard to locate magically, everything I owned with a GPS chip was somewhere else, and the trail of my footsteps in the snow ended at the highway. So far even Midian didn’t know I was here. The ashtray-stinking darkness was about as safe as I was going to get.

When Midian’s shift was over and he came back home, I could talk to him about it. Make a plan. I kept telling myself that. Feeling seeped back into my arms and legs. My toes hurt like hell, and one place near my little toe was still numb. But everywhere I pressed white went pink again when I let up the pressure, so I seemed to have avoided frostbite. I took the Ace bandage off of my arm, throwing the exorcist’s medallion in the sink.

Part of me wanted to keep going, think everything through, take action, but exhaustion and the slowly growing warmth scattered my thoughts. I was only vaguely aware that I was falling asleep, and then the sound of claws against metal woke me up.

It was daylight outside, and not the blue that came before dawn either. I’d slept through the night on the little not-quite-couch, and Midian hadn’t come in. Claws scratched against the door again, and I levered myself up, muscle-sore and aching, to open it. The Labrador chuffed at me, her breath white, and wagged her thick tail.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Come on in.”

As she clambered up the steps, I looked around. The snow-covered ground was so white it had flecks of color—blue and purple and pink. Icicles hung from the restaurant’s eaves while meltwater from the roof dripped down them, making little caves of ice by the wall. The sky was huge and blue and marbled by cloud and contrail. And Midian hadn’t come home last night. Ozzie the Lab sat on her graying haunches, looked at me, and wagged. I scratched her ears absently. Maybe he was out feeding. Or maybe he̵d come in, seen me, and made other arrangements for himself. I was still wearing the white shift from yesterday, and it was starting to reek. My rider was quiet. I figured she had had at least as rough a time as I had. I didn’t know what kind of damage the near exorcism had done to her, or even what kind of shape I should hope she was in.

“Hey,” I said. “Are you there? Truce is still on as far as I’m concerned.”

I might have been talking to myself. I didn’t know. My stomach growled, my hunger level going from background noise to ravenous in about ten seconds. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten anything. Something like twenty-four hours ago, and that had been donuts. No blood sugar probably wasn’t helping me think. I leaned over, reaching the refrigerator door easily from where I sat. The light took a second before clicking on. A glass bottle of milk, three apples, half a loaf of bread, four eggs, and a hunk of cheese. I took an apple, the cheese, and the bottle of milk. I didn’t figure Midian would mind. When I closed the refrigerator door, I noticed the scorpion magnet again, clipping its envelope to the door. With the daylight, I saw there was a single word written on the pale paper like an address: Kid.

Taking a long drink of milk with my left hand, I plucked the letter out from under its scorpion with my right. A single sheet of paper. The note was in perfectly clear handwritten letters, tiny and flowing. Almost like calligraphy.

Hey, Kid.

I’m going to be a little vague here. I don’t know for sure who’s going to be reading this. Figure you’ll get what I’m talking about. You’re smart that way.

I make it the chances of your coming back here are pretty good, or I wouldn’t be leaving this. And probably you won’t have anybody of a clerical bent with you. But if you do, that could make for a really bad day. No offense meant, but I didn’t make it this far by taking risks that weren’t strictly necessary. Sorry to let you down and all. You’re a good kid and I like you, but I don’t see how you and me get to spend a lot of time hanging out. It’s a lifestyle thing. Dietary. You know what I mean.

I’ve been thinking about that guy you did wrong by in Chicago. I’ve seen a lot of people struggle with exactly that kind of problem over the years. Thing is, what you did comes pretty naturally to me. I know what you’re going through, but I don’t really get it. So maybe that’s what I’ve got for you. Some folks it bothers, some it doesn’t. You’re one of the ones it does.

And I’ve got to tell you, I think it’s a good thing Capt. Milquetoast’s out of the picture. I know how this sounds coming from me, but the age gap between you two was always a problem. He’s just at a different place in his life. And this work you’ve been doing? He’s not cut out for it. Twice now he invoked the abyss. Plus which what you said about him getting ridden in New Orleans? Getting a rider’s like a drinking game. Once you start losing, you keep losing—getting ridden opens you up and getting closed again is tricky. That’s something you’re probably going to have to deal with too, now that you’ve gotten the thing shucked out of you. So, you know, good luckt ifthat.

Okay. My ride’s here. I know you’ve got a metric shitload of questions about your uncle. I wish I could help you more, but hey. We do what we can, right? Here’s what I’ve got for you in three sentences or less: He was a sonofabitch. He never did anything without a reason. The reason was always that it made things the way he wanted them.

You’ve got a rough road, kid. Good luck with it. Don’t come looking for me.

Your pal, Midian.

I read it over twice more, waiting to see if I felt betrayed, but all that was there was vague disappointment. Yes, he was a vampire. Yes, he killed people. Ex and Chapin and all the others would have wanted him destroyed, and for good reason. But I liked him. I wondered if my willingness to give him a free pass might not be another step down the path toward not being one of the good guys. I put the letter back in its envelope. Ozzie looked up at me with black, watery eyes, her tail thumping heavily against the floor. I sighed and headed for the back.

Midian hadn’t cleared everything out when he went. The tiny closet had a pair of paint-splattered men’s jeans that I could just about squeeze past my hips, and I found a gray sweater with a stain across the front that might have been blood, but smelled like barbecue sauce and cigarettes. The shower was almost too small to turn around in, but it was there. No shampoo, but I used the bar of soap. Lousy for shine and body, but plenty good enough for getting the worst junk in my hair out of it. The water was hot enough to scald, and ran out after about two minutes. Still, pulling on Midian’s hand-me-downs, I felt better than I had in days. I still didn’t have shoes. Or money. Or anything of my own.

So, that was what I needed to fix next.

O’Keefe’s was open for breakfast. I didn’t go around to the front. I’d done terrible things to my feet in the last two days, and sleeping through the night seemed to have gotten the blood back to every single nerve ending I had. The snow felt burningly cold. I hopped quickly to the kitchen door. The man who opened it was maybe eighteen with hair cut close to his scalp and an ornate cross hanging at his collarbone. He was wearing an ironic Santa hat complete with white pom-pom at the floppy tip, and he was smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, I’m a friend of”—I gestured back toward the RV—“of his. Could I use your phone?”

The guy looked from me to the RV and back, then stood back and let me inside. The kitchen was hot, and the smell of cooking chorizo sausage and freshly brewed coffee was like a postcard from a better world. The man gestured me toward a thin green door. I nodded my thanks and ducked through. The office was tiny. The phone was a cheap cordless with a huge chrome-and-red logo on the mouthpiece for a company I’d never heard of. It took me a couple of tries to remember how to call information, and then how to call information in Denver. All the numbers I needed were in my cell phone, and I didn’t know the actual numbers. Eventually, I got the listing I needed.

The first call was disheartening. I’d forgotten it was Saturday, and all the businesses were closed. But the message left an emergency contact number, so I wrote that down, called back, and waited, biting my lips while it rang. Once I got someone to pick up on the other end, it was a question of minutes while the call was transferred. The clicks and hums made it sound like I was going through about a dozen exchanges.

“Hello, dear,” my lawyer said. “How are you?”

“Little rough,” I said. “Trending up, though.”

“What can I do for you?”

I paused. I’d gotten this far without knowing exactly what my plan was, except that I had resources there and I wanted them here. A crowd of things all came at once: shoes, shampoo, proof that the Black Sun’s daughter hadn’t tricked me into running. My backpack. My friends. Lunch.

The truth was, the answer depended on what I meant my next move to be. I’d gotten out, I’d made it to safety. Ex and Chapin and the others were certain to be out looking for me, but if I wanted to, I could head out of the country on my own. Or go to ground behind the best-paid security that money could buy. Flee or hole up. Or something else.

I took a deep breath and blew it out.

“I need a car. Something big with four-wheel drive. No GPS on it, though. And a cell phone with the GPS taken out or broken. And a couple of outfits. I’m wearing borrowed clothes right now. With good shoes. And really thick socks. And maybe a few thousand dollars in cash. Oh, and … Hey, is there a way for me to get a replacement driver’s license without actually being there? Because I can’t really get to mine right now, and I don’t want to explain that to the highway patrol or the TSA or anyone.”

“I’m sure we can arrange something,” my lawyer said. “Is there anything else?”

“I need Chogyi Jake’s cell phone number. I’ve got it in my old phone, and I don’t remember it.”

She gave it to me, and I dug around in the thin gray metal desk drawers until I found a pen that worked and a piece of paper. Behind me, the kitchen rattled with cutlery and the sounds of frying meat and eggs, loud Spanish and quieter, more distant English. I shifted the phone to my other ear.

“That’s enough for now,” I said.

“Where would you like to take possession?” she asked, and I smiled but didn’t laugh.

“I’m staying in an RV behind a roadside restaurant called O’Keefe’s outside Taos, New Mexico. They should bring everything there.”

“O’Keefe spelled like the painter?”

“I didn’t know there was a painter.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find it. How soon do you need all this?”

“As soon as you can,” I said. “Today would be good.”

There was a pause. I heard keystrokes as she typed something on her computer.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. Weekends make these things difficult,” she said. “I can manage tomorrow early afternoon for the license and the car. I could have the rest of it to you earlier if you’d like.”

“No, I don’t want a lot of different deliveries. It’d call attention to me.” I tried to remember how much food had been in Midian’s RV. Could I really even stay there? It had to really belong to someone, and that almost certainly wasn’t him. Well, I could cross that bridge when I found it. “Bring it all at once, but don’t spare money making it happen fast. If throwing cash at it will help, go wild.”

“Understood,” she said cheerfully.

“You may be hearing from Ex. Whatever he tells you, ignore it. If he asks for anything, don’t do it.”

“Yes, dear. And should I take him off the payroll, then?”

“No,” I said. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing. He’s just wrong and he’s not listening to me right now.”

I could almost hear her eyebrow go up, but her voice didn’t give her away.

“Whatever you think is best,” she said.

“All right, then,” I said. “I think that’s got me covered.”

“If anything else comes up, don’t hesitate to call, dear.”

“Won’t,” I said. “Thanks.”

I hung up, turned, and leaned against the desk. Something was bothering me, and it took me a few seconds to figure out what. Eric was saving me again. When he’d died, he had left everything he had to me, and his personal empire was huge. If I’d come running to Midian’s RV with only what I’d actually earned myself, I wouldn’t have been able to afford my own lunch, much less new clothes, a new car, and a semilegal driver’s license. I didn’t know what I would have done. But I didn’t have to know, because I did have Eric’s money.

He was a sonofabitch. He never did anything without a reason. The reason was always that it made things the way he wanted them.

I hadn’t stopped to ask myself what Eric had meant by bringing me into this secret world. Riders, magic, spirits, wealth. All of it. When it had first happened, I’d thought it was because he’d been my own personal support team. He’d always been there. Not at center stage since he and my Dad fell out, but waiting in the wings. There to catch me when I stumbled. After the drunken lost weekend of my sixteenth birthday, he’d nursed me through my hangover and helped me hide the new tattoo from my parents. Now it seemed like he had to have known. All that time he had to have known there was something growing inside me. That I was infected.

And still, he’d put everything he’d built up into my hands. From beyond death, he was saving me again right now. And he was doing it because somehow, it made things the way he wanted them.

“I don’t suppose you have anything you’d like to tell me about why Eric would have wanted me rich after he died,” I said, but if my rider heard me, she didn’t respond.

I was going to take the money anyway. Even with this suspicion that it might all be poisoned, I would take it and spend it to get myself out of a tight spot, because I didn’t see any other option. For the first timee me uncomfortable.

In the kitchen, a woman’s voice rose in fast, annoyed tones. The cook who’d let me in the office answered. I couldn’t understand any of the words, but the tone was dismissive. The woman signed percussively, and a door opened and closed. I picked up the telephone handset, smoothed down the scrap of paper, and punched the code to block caller ID—just in case—and then the rest of the numbers.

The phone on the far end rang three times. Chogyi Jake picked up.