The White Gold Score (A Daniel Faust Novella) (12 page)

We drove down a sparse night highway with the lights of Los Angeles burning in the distance. No cops on our tail, but we were a long way from safe.

“They’ve found the bodies by now,” I said, “and it’s only a matter of time until somebody notices the tour bus is gone. One plus one equals an APB on this thing. We’ve gotta hide it.”

Jennifer sat behind me, leaning against the headrest as she squinted at the bus window. “There,” she said, pointing at a passing billboard.
U-Pik-It Cherry Farm
, two miles ahead.

“Cherries are out of season,” Jennifer said. “If we’re lucky, the farm’s buttoned up tight ’til next year. All we gotta do is get this rig outta sight, call my guy to come pick up the product, and we’re good as done.”

A quarter mile past the off-ramp, far from the urban sprawl, a grove of cherry trees stood silent in the dark. A short access road ended in a locked gate with a sign reading, “See you next year!” The bus idled while I jumped out, running to the gate and digging out my picks. I made short work of the padlock, chains slithering to the dirt as I swung the gate wide and waved the bus through. Jennifer hopped behind the wheel.

At the far end of the grove, a farmhouse squatted beside an old barn, gray clapboard slowly rotting away in the off-season. The house had sheets of tarp over all the windows, no lights, no caretaker to stumble upon us. I jogged to the barn, putting my back into it as I grabbed hold of the slats and hauled the mammoth door open one jolting foot at a time.

Jennifer inched the bus inside. The engine ground to a dead stop and the headlights went cold, leaving us with the shadows and the endless trill of crickets.

I took a quick look around. Nothing much to see: empty stalls, some old farming tools, and a clumsy stack of deadwood, branches and tree stumps piled high next to an industrial-sized wood chipper. No alarms, no cameras, nothing that could give us away. All the same, the sooner we were out of here—away from the stolen bus and anything that could connect us to the concert hall—the sooner I could breathe easy. An electric lantern with a yellow plastic shell dangled by a wire from the rafters, and I clicked it on to give us a little light.

Caitlin and Jennifer climbed down from the bus, Jennifer already on her phone, dialing up her smuggler friend as she walked past us. I turned, taking Caitlin’s hand, and gave it a gentle kiss.

“So,” I said, “having a fun vacation?”

She pulled me close, the fingernails of her other hand grazing my shoulder.

“So
this
is what you do for a living,” she said.

“Yep,” I told her. “Boring and uneventful. Just another day at the office.”

“It’s me,” Jennifer said, cradling her phone as she lingered by the barn door. “We need that pickup, like,
now
. Hon, we can talk about your fee on the way, okay? You know I’ll treat you right. This ain’t a good time for negotiatin’.”

Caitlin chuckled, folding me in her embrace. “To answer your question, yes, it’s been a lovely trip. Though I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night. It’ll be nice to get back home.”

“No argument there,” I said. “You can go on ahead if you want. I just need to get the watch from Dino, put it on Monty’s wrist, and tell Greenbriar his ghost problem is settled.”

“You’re certain that will work?”

“Sure. He gets his precious watch back, and the guy who stole it—and murdered him—is either ruined or dead. All accounts paid in full. Monty’s spirit won’t have any reason to stick around after that.”

“My clever pet,” Caitlin murmured.

“It’s a cherry farm,” Jennifer was saying. “Just head right up the access road and look for the barn. Put a little hustle in it, all right—”

A hand lunged from the darkness, grabbed her by the hair, and slammed her head against the wall of the barn. Jennifer dropped to the dirt, her phone bouncing from her outstretched fingers. The plastic case crunched into shards of pink confetti under a steel-toed boot.

“I am Koschei, the deathless,” said the hulking figure silhouetted in the open doorway, “and no mortal hands can harm me.”

Jennifer groaned, stunned and cupping her hands to her head. Koschei stepped over her without a second glance, his burning glare fixed on Caitlin. A thin bruise at his throat was the only lingering trace of their last fight. His neck made soft crackling sounds as he raised his chin.

“Unacceptable behavior from a human,” Caitlin growled, brushing past me as they stalked toward each other.

He swung from five feet away, an arc of black smoke sizzling from his fist. Caitlin swiveled back on her hips, hair flying as the smoke sailed above her head and blasted into the barn wall, smashing a chunk of weathered gray board into splinters. She ran in, leaping, one foot flicking out in a snap kick that drew a grunt of pain from Koschei’s pursed lips. She pressed the advantage, taking a swing—and Koschei caught her wrist, spun her around, and gave her arm a sharp, brutal twist.

The sound of Caitlin’s bones snapping hit me like a kick to the teeth. I heard the hiss of strained breath, saw her contorted face as she staggered back, her right arm dangling broken and useless. Koschei threw another punch, black smoke ripping through the air with the speed of a jet turbine, hitting Caitlin in the chest and flinging her off her feet. She landed hard on her arm, more bones crackling.

She scrambled back on her good hand as he closed in on her, eager for the kill. My cards felt useless in my cold, sweaty grip. They couldn’t cut his skin, and I didn’t have time for a spell, didn’t have time to do anything but watch Caitlin die. Jennifer slowly pushed herself to her knees, still dazed from the hit to her head, too slow to help.

Then, looking past Koschei, I saw my chance.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Over here!”

He turned my way. I flicked my fingertips over my cradled deck, feeling a surge of razor-edged magic as I fired a card straight for his eye. He yelped as it hit, finding something softer than skin to cut, and he grabbed at his wounded face. I couldn’t kill him, but I could
hurt
him, and that was what I wanted to do more than anything. I slowly advanced, firing off another card, then another, aiming for his eyes, his lips, one slicing across his upraised fingers. A black pit of rage simmered in my stomach and I called it all up, fueling my weapons with my hatred.

One card went wide, arcing off to his left. Its corner struck the big black
start
button on the wood chipper.

The engine chugged to life, the industrial chipper’s teeth whirring as they spun. Koschei figured out what I was up to just as Jennifer ran in, brandishing a pitchfork she’d snatched up from the tool rack. The tines punched into his chest and she kept on coming, steering him back one strained step at a time as he struggled against her. I darted for the woodpile, grabbed a broken branch, and drove one splintered end against his stomach. Together we forced him right up to the chipper’s yawning mouth. His hands flailed out, grabbing the edges of the machine, the back of his head inches from the grinding teeth.

Caitlin jumped between me and Jennifer, put her good palm against Koschei’s neck, and shoved.

“I am Koschei, the deathless,” he wheezed, his glistening scalp dripping with sweat as his face twisted in animal panic. “No…no mortal hands—”

“Sure they can,” I told him, giving the branch one last push as Jennifer threw her back into the pitchfork, thrusting it like a spear. “Watch.”

He shrieked as the metal teeth bit into the back of his skull, chewing flesh and powdering bone. His hands spasmed, losing their grip, and Caitlin grabbed one of his legs. Yanking him off-balance, lifting him up and over, and feeding him to the machine.

The wood chipper screamed, steel rattling in time to the frantic thrashing of Koschei’s legs as the other end blasted wet crimson and chunks of bone across the back wall of the barn. Torn fabric and torn skin, bits of glistening flesh and entrails, the hulking killer reduced to a wet pile of carnage one squirming inch at a time. We fed the last of him into the machine, one boot kicking free and tumbling to the dirt as his foot went into the steel teeth, and then it was over.

Jennifer leaned on her pitchfork, letting it prop her up like a walking stick as she took a deep breath. “Come back from
that
, asshole,” she muttered.

Caitlin bit her bottom lip hard enough to turn it fish-belly white, cradling her shattered arm. I was at her side in an instant, feeling helpless, glad she was alive but hating to see her hurting. She shook her head at me.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Pain is only pain. I can mend this.”

She sat with her back against the bus’s wheel, gently massaging her arm, deep in concentration, while Jennifer and I stood sentry at the barn door.

“How’s your head?” I asked her.

She touched her scalp and winced. “Gonna have a beauty of a goose egg. Can’t complain too much, all things considered.”

Two hours later, distant headlights strobed along the access road. We braced ourselves for trouble, watching for police lights; then Jennifer let out a sigh as the car loomed into sight.

“It’s my guy, sugar. Everything’s good now.”

Her guy was an Asian kid, no older than nineteen, driving a dusty mud-brown Dodge Caravan. A stick-figure family played soccer on the minivan’s back window. He was all smiles and quiet professionalism until we led him into the barn. He stopped in his tracks and stared wide-eyed at the bloody mess.

“Whoa,” he said, “what happened here?”

Jennifer put her hand on his shoulder, smiling like an angel.

“Darlin’,” she said, “as soon as I’m payin’ you to ask questions, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The Caravan was a smuggler’s special, outfitted with removable sidewalls, concealed panels, and hollowed-out seats with lead-lined cases inside. He stashed the ten kilos of coke in ten different hiding spots and turned them all invisible.

Then he gave us a ride back to Los Angeles. Leaving the farm, the stolen bus, and the remains of a deathless man far behind.

We picked up the Camaro from a side street near the concert hall, keeping a watchful eye out for the cops. The hall itself was buried behind a spiderweb of yellow police tape, and construction cones blocked the empty parking lot, but our car had spent the night as just another piece of random street clutter. Under the radar, just like us.

I drove us to LAX. Jennifer and Caitlin had an early flight. Caitlin’s arm had almost entirely mended, just sore and splotchy with big purple bruises now, and I gave her a careful hug as I saw her off at the security checkpoint.

“I’m right behind you,” I told them. “Just have to take care of loose ends. Dinner tonight?”

“Robuchon’s,” Jennifer said. “You’re buying. You promised.”

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I land.”

I was strolling through the parking garage, on my way back to the car, when my phone buzzed. A call from Dino.

“Cowrie and Jet Talent Management,” I said cheerfully, “Peter Greyson speaking.”

“Peter, hey, Peter,” he stammered. “Uhh, it’s Dino Costa.”

“Hey there,” I said, “we’re looking forward to our meeting this afternoon. We’re still on, right?”

“N-no, listen, I gotta reschedule. We’ll talk about that later. Listen, that, uh, advance money I paid you. Is there any chance I could get that back?”

Now my smile was real, fed by the panic in his voice. That twelve grand was a measly drop in the bucket compared to how much he owed the cartel for his missing coke; when the bill to pay up came due, it wouldn’t save one inch of his skin.

No
, I realized,
it’s not to pay them back
.
He knows he’s a walking dead man. He’s getting ready to run
.

“Give it
back?
” I said, pretending to be confused. “You know I need that money—”

“I’ll double it. Triple it! I just…I have a line on an investment. A sure thing. But I’ve got to act today. If you can bring me that cash, I’ll triple your money by next week. Guaranteed.”

“All right,” I said. “I guess that sounds promising. I’m gonna need details, though. Should I come by your office?”

“No!” he yelped. “No, uh, my office…it’s not good. Where’s yours? I’ll come see you.”

“I’m out on the road,” I told him. “Hold on, I’ll call you right back.”

I looked up an interstate map, fast, and dialed him up again. He picked up in a flash.

“Yeah?”

“I’m on I-5, northbound, about an hour and a half from the city,” I told him. “My GPS says there’s a rest stop up ahead. Lebec Service Road. Meet me there as soon as you can, okay?”

As soon as he hung up, gushing his gratitude, I checked the numbers I’d pulled from his phone the night we broke into his house. I dialed the Red Bee Supermarket. It rang about twenty times before someone finally deigned to pick up.

“Listen up,” I said, “Dino Costa bought ten kilos of cocaine from you, on credit. And now he’s running. You’re never going to get a dime out of him.”

Silence, for so long I thought he might have hung up. Then a voice growled, “Who the fuck is this? You a cop?”

“If I was a cop, you and your buddies would all be in cuffs right now. You watch the news? Hear anything about a slaughter backstage at a concert last night?”

“Yeah,” the voice said grudgingly. “Maybe. What about it?”

“Check who manages the band. You know how Dino moves product. His guys got hit last night. The coke is
gone
.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I
was
one of his guys,” I said. “This crew of meth-head cowboys came in and lit the place up. Between them and the cops, I barely got out alive. I called Dino, and he told me it was my problem, and he was gonna run for Canada without me. I’m laying low right now, can’t do a damn thing to him, but
you
can. That’s why I’m telling you this. Look into it yourself, everything I said will check out. He’s meeting a guy out at the Lebec Service Road rest stop on I-5, somebody who can smuggle him across the border and get him a new identity. Dino’s about to disappear, and he’s gonna make you guys look like punks.”

Another long silence. Then a faint click as the line went dead.

I drove north, making good time, weaving through traffic in the warm California sunshine. Dino was already at the rest stop by the time I got there, standing outside his black Lexus with the MUSKMAN vanity plates and looking anxious. I kept my head down, circling the tan brick building and grabbing a parking space on the far end of the lot. Five minutes later, he called me.

“I’m here,” he said, “where are you? I thought you’d be here already.”

“Close,” I told him. “I had to find a bank and get the cash out, figured you didn’t want a personal check. Just hold tight. I’ll be there any minute now.”

He filled the time making calls, pacing back and forth in front of his car. From the twitch in his body language, they weren’t going well. The rest stop was dead, the occasional tourist coming through for a quick bathroom break or a five-minute leg stretch, but otherwise we had the place to ourselves.

I watched the road.

Dino was on another call, engrossed in an argument, when a white van came trundling up the access road. Harsh sunlight glinted off the dirty windshield, shrouding the driver in shadow. The van turned into the parking lot, slowing to a crawl as it rolled up on Dino and his car.

Dino turned just as the side door rattled open and a kid with a blue and black bandanna tied over his face leaned out, raising a MAC-10. The machine pistol spat fire, the first three-round burst tearing into Dino’s chest, the second throwing him to the pavement in a bloody heap. The kid swung back in, the door slammed shut, and the van took off, squealing back onto the access road and gunning the engine. Message delivered.

I got out of the Camaro and took a casual walk over. Dino looked up at me, flat on his back, his pale blue dress shirt soaked in a river of blood. His jaw trembled, trying to form words, and he raised one shaking hand as if begging for help.

I stripped the Rolex from his wrist and slipped it onto mine, admiring the way the white gold glinted in the sunlight.

“W-
why
,” he managed to stammer.

I shrugged.

“I could tell you there’s a situation in Vegas—a situation you caused—and I’m being paid to discreetly resolve it. I could tell you that my girlfriend is a big Tanesha fan, and you pretty much signed your own death warrant when you went after her. I could tell you that you’re a loose end, and you needed to get snipped.”

I crouched down beside him, looking him in the eye.

“I could tell you all those things, Dino, and they’d all be varying degrees of the truth. But at the end of the day, it comes down to this: you were greedy, you were stupid, and you got in my way. Those were the only three reasons I needed.”

I patted him on the shoulder.

“This is what I do.”

His last breath wheezed from his ruptured lungs, and his trembling hand fell still. I strolled back to the car.

*     *     *

I fought my way through sluggish city streets, one hand on the wheel and one eye on the dashboard clock. By some miracle I made it: right on time for Monty’s funeral.

The parking lot was not full. Neither was the church. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting warm and dusty light across empty pews of lacquered oak. Mourners gathered in clumps here and there, talking softly. I spotted Tanesha across the room, somber in a black lace veil. I didn’t let her spot me. Tonight or tomorrow she’d hear about Dino’s murder. Maybe she’d connect it to the massacre at the concert hall, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d connect it to me, maybe she wouldn’t. Not my problem. I was about to disappear from her life forever.

First, though, I had to make one last thing right. I waited until the coast was clear and sidled up to the open casket. Monty lay on a bed of soft white satin, eyes closed and hands folded at his heart.

“Here you go,” I murmured, slipping the Rolex onto his cold, heavy wrist. “You got your watch back, Dino’s dead, all scores are settled. No reason to hang around. Just…let go. Wherever you’re headed, there’s a chance it’s better than here.”

I didn’t have anything else to say to a dead man. I turned and walked away. Job done.

I caught the next flight home, a one-hour glide with a California sunset at my back. As soon as the plane landed, wheels bumping down hard on the tarmac and the momentum pressing me back against the stiff seat, I felt the last residual tension of the job fade away. This was my home turf. My sweet city of lights. A cab ferried me over to the Monaco, where Greenbriar was waiting.

“Your penthouse is open for business,” I told him.

“You’re sure?” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “I mean, you’re absolutely sure?”

“Everything keeping Monty from moving on has been taken care of. He’s got no reason to stick around.”

He pumped my hand. “Aw, Dan, you’ve got a friend for life. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this—”

“Show your appreciation,” I said, “by paying me.”

I got paid twice that night. Once in a slim little envelope from Greenbriar and once—after a five-star French dinner at Robuchon, as promised—in a cheap aluminum briefcase from Jennifer.

“Done deal,” she told me. “Couple of distributors I know went fifty-fifty on the product. Took all ten keys off our hands, and paid cash. Nice used bills, nonsequential. Your cut comes to right around twenty-three grand.”

“We got away with it,” I said.

“You almost sound surprised, sugar. Yeah, we got away with it all right. I already gave Caitlin her cut. Whatcha gonna do with yours?”

“For now,” I said, “just savor the feeling of not being dead broke.”

Back at my apartment, safe behind a double-locked door and three layers of magical wards, I opened the case. The rows of bills sat snug in rubber-banded stacks, whispering as I riffled through them. I pulled aside my bedspread and tugged up the fitted sheet, then unzipped my mattress. The bills went inside, stack by stack, into a hollowed-out compartment at the foot of the bed.

I’d worked hard to make my home invisible, with a mix of fake names, cash payments, and carefully laid spellwork. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was mine—and for me, it was a sanctuary. Keeping my cash in the mattress didn’t worry me one bit.

Unless somebody managed to penetrate all my defenses, track me down, and pitch a Molotov cocktail through the window—none of which would ever happen—my apartment was the safest place in the world.

I was sound asleep when my phone rang, sometime around two in the morning. I fumbled for it and muttered, “’Lo?”

“God
dammit
, Faust,” Greenbriar snapped, “what the hell are you
doing?
”

“Sleeping. What are you doing?”

“Paying a couple of wealthy European tourists to shut up about the
ghost
that just
attacked
them, that’s what.”

I shot up in bed, wide-awake now.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Greenbriar said. “It’s still here.”