Stolen Souls

46

THROUGH HEAVY EYES, Herkus watched his boss snort up another line from the hotel suite’s glass-topped desk.

“Do you want some?” Arturas asked.

Herkus leaned back in the armchair and let his eyelids drop. “No, I had some already. Let me rest my eyes for a few minutes.”

Arturas kicked his foot, jerking him awake.

“When you track down that whore, then you can sleep.” Arturas paced the room. “I haven’t slept either. You don’t hear me complaining.”

Herkus straightened in the chair. “Of course you haven’t slept. You’ve snorted enough of that stuff to keep an army on its feet. You know, you should—”

“You should remember who pays your wages,” Arturas said, stabbing a finger at him.

Herkus considered countering the argument, but the fog across his mind made it seem like too much effort. Instead, he held his hands up in acquiescence.

“Give me some,” he said, rising from the chair.

Arturas laid out a line, and Herkus leaned over the desk. It blasted the murk from behind his eyes, left a chill at the back of his throat. He coughed.

Herkus recognized addict behavior: encouraging others to join in your weakness. He shouldn’t have indulged, but the weariness had been chipping away at him all day long.

Arturas smiled.

Herkus didn’t know why, but he straightened and returned the gesture anyway.

“I don’t miss Tomas,” Arturas said.

Unsure how to answer, Herkus said, “Oh?”

“I think …”

“You think what?”

“I think I’m glad he’s gone,” Arturas said. His eyes made darting movements, like insects trapped in a jar.

“You don’t mean that,” Herkus said.

“I think I do,” Arturas said. “Tomas was … a problem.”

Herkus took a step away. “Well, he kept things interesting.”

Arturas snorted with laughter. “He was a fucking chain around my neck, choking me.”

“You feeling all right, boss?” Herkus asked.

“No,” Arturas said. “My brother’s dead. How the hell do you think I feel?”

“You said—”

“Shut up.” Arturas pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Forget what I said.”

Herkus shrugged. “Okay.”

“Good,” Arturas said. “Now get out of here and do what I asked you. Don’t come back until you’ve found that whore.”

“Fine,” Herkus said. “But lay off that stuff. Get some rest.”

“Just go,” Arturas said.

Herkus stretched, walked to the door, and let himself out without saying good-bye to Arturas. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes as he made his way to the lifts.

Arturas had been a good boss for a long time, and Herkus had been glad of the work. But lately, maybe the last year or so, the cracks had been appearing. Had the decline coincided with the boss’s advance into Belfast? Herkus believed so. There was something about this place, the gray and the rain and the hate, that got under your skin. Made you resent the very air you breathed.

He hit the elevator’s down button and waited.

What could he do now? Nothing but wait for Gordie Maxwell to phone with some information. Until then, he’d go down to the car and sleep. He stepped into the lift and hit the G button. The doors swished closed. He leaned against the mirrored wall and let his mind drift.

The phone chimed just as his eyelids sagged closed.