No Place Like Hell (26 page)

A pig buddy from work then? Plenty of dirty cops in the world. They joined the force thinking they'd be impervious to the temptations of power, only to have their good intentions sucked out of them. Kasker chuckled at the thought.

He and the ward got out. She gave a nervous scan of the neighborhood and hustled around the car. Her tension made his caution rise.

No lights on in the ward's house. Strange that a visitor would hang around in the dark. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep while waiting for the ward's arrival.

Officer—no, Citizen Demasi—grabbed his arm and towed him beneath a scraggly tree to the front door. She must be in a hurry to greet her guest.

After a brief fumble, she stuck her key in the lock, twisted, and pushed the door open.

The soul inside had gone still. The smell of overpowering fear slapped Kasker in the face. In that moment, he knew they'd walked into a trap.

He grabbed the ward's arm and dragged her down and back. The sharp crack of a gun split the night. An angry bee buzzed over his head. A second bullet followed the first.

"Police! Drop your weapon and give yourself up," the ward shouted into the darkness.

Kasker admired her quick thinking and courage—even if she trembled against him like a sapling in an earthquake. The man inside sprinted for the back door.

Kasker dumped the ward on the porch and charged in. A lamp beside the door toppled as he brushed past. His shin caught the corner of a chair or sofa, the light in the room too poor to reveal the object.

The back door banged. He hopped three steps nursing his bruised leg and rushed into the kitchen where he caught his hip on a counter. Goats! The place was designed for midgets.

The ward grabbed him by the arm. "Let him go! He's got a gun."

"He's a lead to Holmes."

Kasker shook her hand away and slammed through the back door. Lights had come on in the house to his left. Souls stirred. A child wailed.

The shooter was already across the yard and leaping the fence. Kasker bared his teeth and ran after the assassin. The blisters on his feet screamed their protest.

Behind him, the screen door thumped closed. No footsteps followed him. The ward might be a superior hunter, but it seemed she had no stomach for danger. Kasker laughed and vaulted the fence.

Kasker's prey rounded the corner of the neighbor's house and paused.
Setting another trap
. He wouldn't be fooled by such an ancient and simple trick.

Kasker cut sharp right around the opposite side of the building. On the way, he tripped over a wheelbarrow and sprawled on the grass, cursing. The barrow clanged onto paving stones.

The soul of the shooter stepped back from his strategic location at the house corner, alerted to Kasker's flanking movement.

Growling, Kasker regained his feet. He hugged the shrubbery, blending with the shadows. He burned to be free of the flesh, free of binding mortality, so he could pursue his prey in his true form. He rounded the corner.

The shooter backed toward the street, gun raised. He fired high and wide. And fired again. A woman cried out in alarm.

Kasker dodged and grinned. The human was a coward and a bully, the type who shot others in the back. By his actions, he'd denied himself entrance to Heaven, but as yet, he hadn't assured his place in Hell. When he died, his soul would perish into the universe.

Kasker cursed the waste. He hungered for soul. Saliva broke in his mouth and washed over his lips. He was the hunter. He bayed his excitement and ran forward in a zigzag line.

The shooter went rigid. Then he turned and bolted.

More windows brightened. Porch lights switched on. Doors opened. Men stepped out.

The shooter dug in a pants pocket with one hand. With the other, he pointed the gun over his shoulder and fired until the gun clicked empty. He tossed the weapon away and ran harder.

Kasker didn't waste breath on a laugh. He closed ground. The puny shooter was no match for Kasker's superior physique. In another five seconds, his fate would be sealed.

The man reached a junker car parked on the street. He scrambled in and started the engine before closing the door. With a chirping of tires, he pulled away, the driver's door first swinging wide before slamming shut.

The grin fell from Kasker face. He raced down the middle of the street, pushing the flesh to its limits. His only focus was the swirling light and dark of the tainted soul as it fled.

45

Sleeth was either the bravest man alive or certifiably insane. My money was on mad as a hatter. I had to find the shooter before Sleeth got himself killed.

My family-oriented neighborhood wasn't the kind of enclave where hit men settled. The shooter must have a car stashed nearby. When he reached it, he'd get away. Chasing him on foot was plain stupid.

I started my Corvair, threw it into gear, and floored it. I circled to the opposite side of the block.

Neighbors stood in small knots on lawns discussing the night's events. I didn't see a body on the pavement and breathed a sigh of relief. But I also didn't see Sleeth. Someone pointed west. I hurried on in the indicated direction.

Three blocks farther, Sleeth ran down the middle of the street like the hounds of Hell pursued him. No one ran in front of him. Was he chasing the shooter or running away?

I closed up, but he was oblivious to me. He didn't look around until I tooted my horn. Then he stopped so abruptly that I collided with him.

Sleeth rolled across my hood, landed on his feet beside my door, and jerked it open.

"Move over." He didn't wait for me to comply but crowded in. The car rolled forward when my foot was forced off the brake. I pulled myself into the passenger seat, ready to read him the riot act.

"Quiet," he said before I could breathe a word.

Sweat rolled down his face and his chest heaved. His eyes were half closed in concentration. It must have been the reflection of the dash lights. His pupils glowed red.

He didn't bother to adjust the seat even though his legs were jammed against the steering wheel. He screeched away.

We tore through the quiet residential neighborhood like we were running for the finish of the Indy 500. I fumbled my seatbelt on and braced a hand on the side door. I didn't see a car ahead of us.

"What's he driving?"

Sleeth spun the wheel, and we careened around a corner. Still no taillights before us.

"Where—"

"Shh." His brows pulled down hard, and he leaned forward.

Five more blocks, during which we topped ninety. I didn't know the car could go that fast. Animal eyes sparkled, and a cat darted across in front of us.

"Watch out!"

Sleeth growled in reply. I had the arm rest in a death grip and vowed never to let him behind the wheel again, assuming I survived.

We blew through a stop sign and fish-tailed around another corner. I'd seen nothing of the killer's car. How could Sleeth still be following it?

A police cruiser, light flashing but running silent, ripped through an intersection a block ahead. I guessed they were the backup for the first unit responding to shots fired at my place. Their presence didn't slow the lunatic driving my car.

Sleeth weaved along an arterial, whipping into oncoming traffic to pass vehicles slowing him. I held my breath and gritted my teeth. A head-on at our speed would kill us both.

"There." Sleeth pointed, a triumphant grin on his face.

An older two-tone Datsun sedan sporting serious dents and gray primer patches rolled along a block ahead. Sleeth didn't let up on the accelerator.

"Back off. He'll see us," I said.

"I'll force him off the road," Sleeth replied.

"Not in my car you won't." I reached for the ignition key.

Sleeth caught my wrist. As we struggled, he swerved from one side of the road to the other. We missed sideswiping a parked car by less than an inch. My heart jumped up to block my throat.

The suspect noticed our erratic behavior. He romped on it. Sleeth did the same.

I withdrew my hand from Sleeth's grasp and braced it against the dash. Every muscle in my body locked up tight. This whole chase was insane, but I was powerless to stop it.

We'd reached the outskirts of Solaris and raced into an area of new home development. Stretches of bare lots were studded with houses at various phases of construction, only one in four of them complete and inhabited. Streetlights burned, but most of the sidewalks were missing or outlined in wooden forms.

Our suspect twisted and turned through rolling hills and meandering streets. He didn't seem familiar with the area. Too late, he realized he'd turned into a cul-de-sac.

Sleeth bared his teeth and pounded the wheel with a hand. "I got him."

When the shooter hit the end of the asphalt, he kept going. His Datsun bounced across the rough yard of an unfinished house and over a rise. A billowing cloud of dust hung in the air to mark his trail. Sleeth followed.

"Slow down," I said. "You don't know what's out here. If you bust an axle, he could get away."

The hippie tossed me an unhappy glance but complied. The car jumped and bucked. My teeth clacked together with each landing. I could barely breathe in the dust-laden air.

A thunderous crash carried over the engine and tire noise. Sleeth went for the brakes. We skidded off the dirt and onto pavement.

When the dust settled, the headlamps illuminated an eerie scene of contrasting light and shadows. Skid marks on the pavement indicated the driver's unsuccessful attempt to stop before he plowed across a street and into a telephone pole.

The sheared-off pole lay on top of the collapsed passenger compartment. Steam hissed from the radiator. Nothing moved inside the car.

"Come on," I said. I unlatched my seat belt and cracked open my door.

"You go. I'll wait here."

"Because you'd rather he shoot me?" I asked, putting as much sarcasm as I could into my tone.

"He tossed the gun before he got in the car."

I stared at Sleeth. This was the man unmoved by Decker's gruesome body, the man determined to run into a hail of bullets to follow a clue, and now he wouldn't get out of the car.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

The hippie huffed up. "I'm not afraid of anything. The guy's dead. Nothing to see."

At the next lot over, lights came on in a house. If I wanted a chance to search the car, I needed to move. I snatched my keys from the ignition.

"Get out of my seat," I said.

By the light of the Corvair's headlamps, I trotted over to the Datsun. Little eddies of dust created a haze that caught in my throat. The darkness outside my puddle of light seemed surreal and unfriendly.

I looked in the crunched driver-side window. A white male of approximately thirty slumped over the wheel. He hadn't taken the time to buckle up. The top of his head was a flattened bloody mess. I clenched my teeth on the urge to vomit and didn't bother checking for a pulse.

The house door opened. A man in a bathrobe stepped onto the porch. He peered my direction but didn't come any farther.

"Call an ambulance," I said, raising my voice so he could hear.

He gave me a wave and went inside. He'd be back.

I jammed my hand behind the shooter, searching for a wallet. I found one. A wave of heat washed over me from behind.

I spun around. Nothing was there. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It had to be a trick of the erratic breeze blowing heat from the motor over me.

In the light from the Corvair, I glanced through the contents of the wallet. My hands shook so bad I almost dropped it. No ID.

I stuffed the wallet back where I'd found it and circled the car. The passenger-side door wouldn't open, but the Datsun was tiny. I reached the glove box through the open window. I'd hoped to find the vehicle registration. No such luck.

In the corner of my eye, a shadow slithered past on the opposite side of the car. I gasped and jumped back, staring hard at the driver and out through the slit of window where I'd seen… something.

Nothing moved. I glanced back at the Corvair but couldn't see anything while looking into the headlamps.

I hurried back to the Corvair and got in. The interior burned like a furnace despite the open windows and cool night.

Sleeth slumped in the passenger seat. His arms wrapped his torso. He looked ready to upchuck on my floorboards.

"I didn't find any identification," I said as I drove away. "What a bust."

"Herman Marks," Sleeth said in a tight voice. At my look, he continued, "The guy in the car, Herman Marks."

"You know him?" I asked, my voice rising with a mix of surprise and anger.

He stuttered and cleared his throat. "Seen him around."

It sounded like a big fat lie. "At Calderon's?"

"No, no," Sleeth said too quickly while holding up his hands and shaking his head. "Just… around."