Hellbent Read online

  There’s an old-fashioned freight elevator at the end of the entry hall; it’s not one of the posh fancy gated ones, but it’s a very large industrial gated one that is still kind of cool to operate. I do it with a lever and some buttons. It took some getting used to. The first time I gave it a whirl, I wound up stuck between the second and third floors and had to climb out like a monkey.

  I was careful to keep that from happening this time, though. I wouldn’t want Rose to have to hike over the floor hump in those shoes.

  I was getting better at it. The elevator stopped dead right where I wanted it to. I drew back the grate and we stepped inside to a different world, or so I liked to think.

  Sure, the bottom three floors were essentially hundred-year-old architecture with exposed wiring and brick, but the fourth floor had money poured into it. Believe me, I know. It was my money.

  The interior feels a little cavernous, with each unit having an open floorplan—and the elevator opens into a lobby that could be another unit if I wanted to make it one. It’s maybe a thousand square feet of space, with lovely hardwoods and a few long running rugs. The windows have dark maroon curtains that are drawn over venetian blinds—and bulletproof glass.

  Yeah, I sprang for it.

  “Hey!” hollered Pepper, a little close to Ian’s ear for his personal comfort. They were seated together on a love seat in this lobby—this common area, for lack of a better way of putting it—and he’d quite clearly been urging her to read to him. It’s one of his tricks to educate the little monster. She won’t go to school and I’m not in a position to make her (and neither is he, obviously), so in order to ensure that her brain doesn’t rot, he’s making sure she can read and write with some expertise.

  It’s a good idea. She’s almost nine. One of these days, she won’t be as cute as she is now, though I find that hard to imagine. Someday, she might need a job. Or more obviously and certainly, someday she’ll need to be able to navigate the real world of civilized adults who are not undead.

  If I have to, I can buy her forged paperwork to show she has a diploma for anything, from almost anywhere she wants. And I’ll probably be willing to do that one of these days. But first she’ll have to prove to me she can handle the basics.

  Her brother’s another story. He’s not as stupid as I’ve (repeatedly) accused him of being, but he’s got a lot less discipline—which is saying something, because an eight-year-old girl doesn’t exactly have the world’s reservoirs of the stuff. But he wasn’t there right then when Rose and I came back from Neighbors. It was just the little girl and the blind vampire.

  “Hey, you,” I said back to her.

  She stood up like it’d almost crossed her mind to come give me a hug, but she wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t know what to do if she did. She’s a great kid, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t get hugged very often. It would throw me for a loop. I’d be exactly as startled as she would be if I picked her up and gave her a big honkin’ smooch on the cheek.

  The precocious little stinker said, “And hi … um … Rose!” She seized the name and blurted it, dodging the pronoun issue altogether.

  “Hey kid,” my companion greeted her back. Then she asked me, “Do I still have that drawer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Time for the ol’ switcheroo,” she said, striding off toward my room.

  The bottom drawer of one of my dressers is dedicated to men’s clothing, and these days it’s mostly Adrian’s. If this sounds strange, allow me to remind you that several international agencies believe I’m a man. So every now and again, I masquerade as one, but only when I’m up to no good and I suspect I might get caught on camera.

  Adrian and I are nowhere near the same size, but somehow his stray shirts, pants, socks, and the like have made their way into my dude-wear collection over the last few months. I know it sounds promisingly dirty, but it’s as simple as this: I have a washer and dryer down on the third floor, and my favorite drag queen likes to keep her quarters to herself. She comes over to do laundry.

  As she wandered off, I joined Ian and Pepper, who wanted to show me what they’d been reading. It was Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Ian told me, “She’s doing very well.”

  “I should hope so,” I said.

  To which she informed me, “Raylene, of course I’m doing very well—I can totally read,” in that kid voice that carries the subtext of, “Clearly I am speaking to the dumbest person alive. Or dead.” But she was being friendly and not actually accusing me of being a moron, I was pretty sure.

  “I’m glad you can read. At this point, I’d be concerned if you couldn’t.”

  Ian smiled up at both of us, his icy-white eyes fixed on neither. “She’s a quick study. I’m not the world’s best judge of such things, but her reading level is easily above her …” He hesitated. “Estimated grade level.”

  As far as we knew, she’d never seen the inside of a classroom.

  “Ian’s a good teacher,” she told me. “But I could already read. Domino taught me.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I didn’t feel like arguing with her. And maybe he’d taught her the ABCs at some point while they were on their own, before I met them. I was prepared to concede that it might be tricky, learning how to read from a blind man. I jumped topics. “Speaking of your brother, where is he?”

  “He went to get groceries.”

  “Awesome,” I said, not meaning a single consonant of it. I’m no expert on children’s nutrition, but I’m pretty sure Ho Hos and Pringles ought to feature less prominently in anybody’s diet. “Maybe he’ll bring back some fruit or something. One of these days.”

  “I don’t like fruit.”

  “You should eat fruit anyway. And vegetables.”

  “You don’t,” she pointed out. She and Domino both know what Ian and I are. I’m not sure when they figured it out exactly, but one day they just acted like they’d known all along, so I quit pretending.

  I told her, “I’m not a growing girl anymore. If you eat nothing but junk food, it’ll stunt your growth.”

  “But it’s not hurting my brain,” she insisted, holding up the book and waving it at me. “My brain is working fine.”

  “Well, if you’re content to be short and enlightened, I guess that’s no problem of mine.”

  “Have you read this?” she asked me. “It’s a really good book.”

  “I’ve read some of that guy’s other stuff, but not that one. He’s pretty funny.”

  “You should read it,” she said firmly, in precisely the same tone she’d told me I ought to have more video games—with the absolute confidence of a kid who’s found something she likes and is convinced you will too, if you only try it.

  “Maybe I will, one of these days.” Then I asked Ian, “What’s next on the educational agenda?”

  “I was hoping you could offer some suggestions. We’re burning through the suitable items in your personal library,” he said, meaning they’d raided my bedroom and the boxes of loose paperbacks I keep under the bed. I’ve been meaning to put up bookshelves, but you know how it goes.

  “Who’s Anaïs Nin?” Pepper asked, pronouncing it Ann-iss.

  “Someone you’re going to love in another twenty years.”

  Ian would’ve done a facepalm if he hadn’t been too dignified, so instead he gazed toward us indulgently and told her, “She’s an author who wrote many books, none of which I expect you’d like particularly well right now. But perhaps, Monday evening, we ought to see about getting you a library card.”

  “I can have a library card?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

  I said, “I don’t see why not. If you and Ian want to find your way down there and fill out the paperwork, I bet you could con someone into hooking you up.”

  In truth, I wasn’t so sure. Ian has no legal relation to Pepper, and obviously neither do I. If she and Domino have any parents anywhere, they’ve never cared enough to report them missing. I
know. I’ve checked the listings. It was kind of like scanning the classified ads, looking to see if anyone’s missing a puppy you’ve found. I struck out. No one wanted them, so I was stuck with them.

  Before long, Adrian deJesus emerged from my bedroom looking all-man … except for a smudge of silver cream shadow glittering at the corner of one eye. I pointed it out and he wiped it off on the back of his hand.

  The liquor cabinet, such as it is, is also in the big common area—along with a television that has a screen the size of a twin mattress, and a couch next to the love seat where Ian had been instructing Pepper. I ordered Adrian to bring me a glass of wine and help himself to whatever he wanted, and I plopped down on the couch, bogarting the TV remote because I’ll be damned if I’ll let these kids have it while they’re living under my roof.

  I don’t lock the cabinet because I’m not stupid. If Domino wants wine, he’ll find a way to get it regardless, and I’d rather he doesn’t break the thing. It’s an antique. Besides, I’m reasonably certain that Pepper doesn’t have any real interest in it yet, and if she ever develops any, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. God knows I’m not their mother. It’s not really my job to look after them.

  Don’t you dare say a word about how I feed them, clothe them, and now am in the process of educating them. (Or one of them, anyway.) I know I’m an idiot, so let me delude myself, will you?

  Behind us, we heard the old freight elevator creak, groan, and rumble back down to the first floor, and soon Domino joined us with a big box of Twinkies and two 2-liters of Coke. Nutritious.

  Yeah, I should really do something about that, I know.

  But since everybody was there, and since the night was still young for the likes of us, we all settled in to watch whatever was fresh off Netflix. It turned out to be the third Underworld movie. We laughed, shut up, and drank.

  3

  When I woke up the next night, I was virtually alone. Ian was sleeping in and by the sounds of things, the kids were out doing … whatever the hell they did every time they left the place. Out in the main living area, the large love seat was rumpled and the throw that usually went across its back was wadded up on the right seat cushion, but it was otherwise empty, meaning Adrian had pulled himself together and gone home at some point during the day.

  I want to say that the silence was kind of refreshing.

  Before the adventures that had brought us together, I’d spent virtually all my time alone. I got accustomed to it. I came to enjoy it. But these days, it was funny. The gang drove me nuts when they were around, but when they were gone, I kind of missed them.

  If I wasn’t completely insane before, I must take this as a sure sign that I’m headed that way now.

  I retreated to my room again, took a shower (because I like them, not because I sweat much or get very manky on my own these days), and once I got myself dressed again, I began to pack for Portland.

  Because packing while naked is weird, that’s why.

  I could’ve flown, but it’s only about three hours from Seattle by car, and nobody is going to x-ray my stuff before I put it in my car. I don’t go into these situations unarmed and/or unprepared. That’s just the nature of the business. Every time I leave on a business excursion—even an excursion that I am assured will be the world’s easiest walk in the park—I bring a full roll of keys, picks, cards, knives, and a whole lot of other stuff that a lesser thief might leave behind.

  Say it with me, kids: There is no such thing as overprepared.

  In addition to the expected arsenal, I also bring small motion detectors, tiny cameras, a wee bottle of baby powder (you never know when someone will have lasers), some knockout powder I get from a very discreet source (you never know when there will be dogs), zip-ties that will hold my weight if they have to, a cigarette lighter, two cell phones (you never know when one will have a bum battery), and a nine-millimeter. Look, I can run fast, but not faster than a speeding bullet. And sometimes someone will run away from me. I don’t always feel like giving chase.

  If this sounds sinister, it’s supposed to. I am, quite frankly, not very nice.

  Maybe that’s why I put up with the gang’s shenanigans. Because the gang is willing to put up with mine, which makes them damn near unique. Another batch of lunatics like these may never come along again. I may as well take advantage of the company while it’s dumb enough to stick around.

  I double-checked my ammo, packed everything in an obsessively orderly fashion, and slung the one bag over my shoulder. The telescoping handle on the roller bag came out with a snikt like Wolverine’s claws. I love that sound. That sound means money.

  Beside the television is a pad of Post-it notes. I took one and scrawled a hasty message to Ian, then stuck it smack in the middle of the screen. That little yellow note said I’d be back within a couple of days, and to call if anything blew up, caught fire, or fell down.

  As if there was anything I could do about it from Portland, if it did.

  But I like to pretend that I’m covering my tracks, bracing for any contingency. Ready for the worst, and all that jazz. I always feel better if there’s a plan in place. And in this case, the plan was, “Leave the blind guy in charge of the juvenile delinquents and everything will be just fine. Probably.”

  I exited quietly, or as quietly as I could, given the clanking gate on the old elevator.

  Outside, Seattle was in rare form.

  It was raining just barely hard enough to say “it’s raining” not “it’s drizzling”—and the wind off Puget Sound was blowing in sideways, drilling all those nasty little drops right into the cracks of everything I was wearing. I understand the whole idea of spring showers and I can even get behind them with a little cheer, but I could live without the wind, and I could also live with a little lightening of the chill, seeing as it’s April and all. I’d be dumbfounded and delighted to see it crest sixty degrees.

  Goddamn, I mean seriously.

  My car was parked in a private garage two blocks away. I hiked toward it with a glum sort of resignation, all my glee from the snikt of the luggage drained right out of me by the weather. I don’t usually mind it, so I’m not sure what my problem was that particular evening. Maybe I took it as a sign—a sign that this was not going to be easy or pleasant after all. A sign that I was in for a good soaking.

  Or I was just pissy about being wet.

  After snagging the right wheel of my roller in a metal gutter grate and generally getting soaked right to the bone, I reached the parking garage and crammed all my stuff into the trunk. I let myself inside the silver Taurus and pulled out of the garage, into the street. Then I began the roundabout route to the interstate.

  Yes, the Princess of the Night drives a Taurus. At the moment.

  I don’t go for flashy cars because I don’t want anyone to look at me. Usually I drive something five or ten years old and as utterly bland as I can arrange. Voilà, Taurus. And to clarify the other half of that whiny paragraph about getting out of the city, let me be clear: At no point, anywhere in Seattle, is there a clear and obvious route to an interstate. And, if you find yourself magically right beside an interstate on-ramp, you can safely assume that it’s leading the wrong direction. You might say to yourself, “Self, if I’ve found the on-ramp going this direction, surely the on-ramp going the other direction must be right nearby!” But you’d be wrong. This place was designed by crack addicts, I’m convinced of it.

  Eventually I made it onto the main drag and out down I-5, headed south. It’s not a particularly pleasant or unpleasant drive to Portland—not at night, anyway. You can’t see Mount Ranier or any of the other mountains, and mostly you spend all your time squinting at headlights as they glare up at you from the darkness. But the path is straight even if the road is potholed and crooked. It’s an easy shot, all in a row: Tacoma, Olympia, Vancouver (the Washington one, not the one in Canada), Longview.

  Portland.

  You cross a big bridge on the way into town, driving o
ver the Willamette River and down into a sprawling, industrial sort of place that was once called “Stumptown” because they’d cut down all the trees as far as the eye could see.

  Once I’d made it into town, it was first things first. I got myself a hotel room down by the river, which put me a little outside the city center, but was worth it for the nicer accommodations. Then I hunkered down, unpacked my stuff, made myself comfortable, and commandeered the television remote because it was MINE ALL MINE and no one was going to fight me for it.

  I also took a few minutes shortly before dawn to fool around online and get a better feel for the address I was about to breach.

  Using Google Maps and other assorted search-engine explorations, I examined Joseph Harvey’s house, his neighborhood, his nearest restaurants, gas stations, and easiest routes of exit from that little shred of sparsely built semi-suburbia. If I’d had a printer handy I would’ve printed everything I found, but I didn’t, and I kicked myself. It’s always the one thing you forget to pack, you know?

  Realistically speaking, I could find my way over there without any real trouble. I memorized the streets and counted the number of houses in every direction. But I love having paper backups, if only because of the joy I get from shredding or burning them when I’m finished. It’s like crossing something off a list in a violent, warm fashion.

  Paper backups are psychological bread-crumb trails, or that’s how I like to think of it. But I didn’t have them, so I was on my own with only my neuroses to keep me company. Just like the good old days!

  I went to sleep sometime around dawn and woke up roughly when the moon began to rise, which meant I was out of bed around nine o’clock and out of the hotel about half an hour later—when it was good and dark, and I was good and ready.

  Harvey’s house was eighteen point two miles south from my present position, outside the main chunk of town, and outside most of the better-planned ’burbs. It took me over half an hour to find the general location, and another five minutes to pinpoint my target. This is partly because I’d misjudged the satellite photos, thinking that Harvey lived in some kind of neighborhood. He didn’t, not really. He lived in the woods, with next-door neighbors who were half a city block’s length away from him on either side and across the street.