The Getaway God by Richard Kadrey

  One of the Luderes gives a little shriek. She’s been stung by one of the scorpions. The shrieker gives the room a little wave.

  “Sorry. Everyone’s fine. Carry on.”

  She and her friend crack up.

  I turn back to Vidocq, but there’s someone in the way. One of the Goth boys from the table in the back has joined us. He’s dressed in a long high-­collared coat and has wild Robert Smith hair. He looks vaguely like a mad scientist disguised as a priest. There’s something funny about his eyes. I glance over at his friends. They look as surprised as I am.

  “No autographs today, kid,” I say. “I’m with friends.”

  The kid takes a step. Stumbles and slams into the bar. I have to grab his arm to keep him from falling over.

  He says, “It’s not going to stop. No matter what you do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s my message to you. It’s never going to stop.”

  I know what’s wrong with his eyes. He’s possessed. In Hell there’s a key. If you know how to use it, and not many down there do, you can temporarily take possession of a body up here. Someone is riding this kid like he’s a carousel pony.

  “He isn’t Death. Or God or the Devil. He is the Hand. Cut one off and another takes his place. He is many-­bodied. Many-­handed. A hand for each soul on Earth.”

  I slap the kid. Shake him. His eyes stay vacant and dead.

  “Who are you? Who gave you the message?”

  “Come out and see,” he says.

  Vidocq puts a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere with this boy. He is dangerous.”

  “I know. But if there’s something out there I can’t stay here.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” says Carlos. “Let me call the cops. This is why I pay the fuckers.”

  I nod.

  “Maybe calling them isn’t a bad idea.”

  I turn to Vidocq.

  “Keep everyone else inside.”

  The kid is still holding on to me.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  I get up and the kid lets go of me, leading the way outside. I put my hand under the coat and slip out my na’at.

  We go out into the rain. Smokers huddle under the awning. A few of the regulars nod and wave. I don’t wave back.

  The kid walks all the way to the curb. I stay a ­couple of steps behind him. We stand there in the rain like a ­couple of assholes. He steps into the street between two cars, looking around like he’s waiting for a cab.

  “You saw a golden woman in the water. There,” he says, pointing west to the Pacific.

  “I remember.”

  When Kill City collapsed into the ocean a few weeks ago, I was in it. Something that looked like a woman covered in gold swam up from the wreckage and tried to pull me down.

  “She served the Hand. She was beautiful.”

  “Except for the part where half her face was missing.”

  He nods. His long hair is plastered to his head, covering one eye.

  “She was incomplete. That won’t happen again.”

  “You couldn’t tell me this inside, where it’s dry?”

  He holds his hands out wide.

  “You don’t understand what’s happening and even if you did you can’t stop it. The old ones are coming. They will bless us with annihilation.”

  A delivery truck speeds up the street. It swerves toward the curb. Hits the cars the kid is standing between. The impact drives both cars up onto the sidewalk. The kid is still between them, but now he’s in two pieces. A girl screams and keeps on screaming.

  The kid’s friends must have followed us outside. A ­couple of the other Goth kids run to the curb like maybe they can put their friend back together again. I climb over the trunk of one of the wrecked cars. Go to the truck and pull the driver-­side door open. The driver half falls out, held in place by his seat belt. His head is pulped from smashing into the windshield. I test his seat belt. It’s locked right across his body. It doesn’t make sense that he could have hit the inside of the windshield. Unless someone else belted him in after his head was in pieces and he was dead. I step up onto the running board to check out his body. His right arm is gone. Cut off neatly at the shoulder. Another Angra groupie? I can see why he’d sacrifice himself, but why take out the kid? No way he was looking to die.

  I start back into the bar. The kid’s phone rings. He had it in his hand the whole time.

  “Don’t touch it,” I say.

  I kneel down and pry it from his hand. One of the boys vomits into the street. I go back inside the bar and head straight for the men’s room, where it’s quieter. No one is inside. I shove a trash can under the doorknob so no one can get in. Where the number of the caller should be displayed it says BLOCKED. I thumb the phone on.

  “He’s right, you know. You can’t stop it.”

  There’s static on the line, but I know the voice. This isn’t the first time he’s crank-­called me from Hell.

  “Fuck you, Merihim.”

  Merihim is head of the Hell’s one official church. But it was all a ruse. He’s also in a Hellion Angra cult. A lot of the fallen angels want the old gods back so that they’ll destroy the universe, hoping it will relieve them of the torments of Hell. It’s the biggest suicide pact in the history of creation.

  “Try again. Do you think there’s only one who can speak through mortals?”

  The line static clears up.

  “Deumos?”

  She’s another fallen angel. She ran another underground, radical church in Hell. Except it was all a con job. She was working with Merihim to bring the Angra back. I guess you can’t trust Hellions or preachers. Who would have guessed?

  “The who doesn’t matter. The what matters. Return the Qomrama Om Ya. That’s the only way the killing will end.”

  “So you can summon the Angra? I know how you want things to end.”

  “Admit it. You’re as exhausted by existence as we are. Help us end it.”

  “Hello? Say that again. It’s hard to hear you over the bullshit.”

  There’s a pause. I start to think that the line has gone dead.

  “Hello?”

  “You’ll find each other sooner or later, and when you do, you’ll see how pointless your cowboy antics really are.”

  I hear a click and the call is over. I drop the kid’s phone in my pocket and take out my own. I hit redial and call Candy.

  It rings twice and she picks up.

  “You all right?” I say.

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason. You weren’t feeling well earlier.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Bamboo House.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “Don’t bother. Cops are on the way.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I switch the phone to my left hand. There must have been blood on the kid’s phone. I wipe my right hand on my coat.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “You stay put, lock up the store, and I’ll bring home some donuts.”

  “Yum.”

  I try to slip out the front of the bar, but the cops are already there. It’s the two that were in the bar earlier. When they try the bully-­boy routine, I use the only weapon I can think of. One that might backfire in my face. I flash my Vigil credentials at them. They back off. Reluctantly, but they back off.

  “I understand you removed evidence from the accident scene,” says one. The one who looked at me funny before. He’s still looking at me kind of like I’m a talking lobster.

  “I’m taking in a cell phone to the Vigil’s labs.”

  “You don’t think this was a traffic accident?”

  “I don’t know what it is, but I know the kid is a person of interest in a Vigil inv
estigation, so I’m keeping the phone.”

  “Let me see that ID again.”

  I pull it out but keep it close enough that he can’t grab it from me.

  He writes down my ID number and closes his notebook.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says.

  “I’ll count the seconds.”

  I walk around the corner into the alley next to Bamboo House. The headlights of the cop car throw a nice shadow on the wall. As I step through I catch the cop with the notebook watching me. I keep going. This is Hollywood. Fuck him if he can’t deal with a little street magic.

  I’M HOME MAYBE twenty minutes when someone pounds on the front door of Max Overdrive. I grab my Colt and head downstairs. The front of the store is all glass, so if someone really wanted to get in they could. Still, I’d like to know who I’m dealing with. I flip on the outside light and go behind the counter. We installed a surveillance camera over the door when Kasabian and I had the place fixed up. Except tonight all I can see is the outline of a body outside and heavy rain. More pounding on the door.

  “Stark. I know you’re in there. Open up, dammit.”

  It’s a woman’s voice.

  I take a chance and look around the shade that covers the door and recognize Marshal Julie Sola. I stuff the Colt in my waistband and unlock the door. She brushes past me to get out of the rain. She’s in a long slicker raincoat with the hood pulled up over her head. Still, she’s drenched and making a puddle on the floor. I point to the peg on the wall where ­people can hang their raincoats. She gives a soft “Ah,” takes off her coat, and hangs it up.

  Her hair is long and dark, pulled up high and pinned in place. It was, at least. Now it’s a wet rat’s nest. She’s dressed in light, loose-­fitting sportswear, a kind of idiot camouflage the Vigil makes many agents wear to try and blend in with their country-­club location. She looks vaguely embarrassed, but quickly shakes it off.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  “You’re half drowned. Why didn’t you wait till I came in tomorrow?”

  “Would you have really come to see me?”

  “Maybe not first thing, but sure. I like you fine.”

  “That isn’t what I mean,” she says. “This is what I mean.”

  She hands me the manila envelope she’s been holding. She had it under the jacket, but the front is still damp.

  I open the envelope and find official Vigil stationery and forms. Many pages of forms. It’s my psych evaluation.

  “I have to do all this?”

  “Ah no. This is just part one. There are three parts.”

  “Fuck me,” I say. The pages are full of word problems, shapes I’m supposed to group together, drawings, and questions about my parents.

  “I can help you,” she says. “I know the right answers to give so Washington won’t ask any questions.”

  “You think Washington is going to buy it if I come off like Mike Brady?”

  She smiles and rubs her hands together to get the circulation going.

  “So we’ll leave some rough edges on. The point is you’ll pass. We need you.”

  I drop the envelope on the counter.

  “Why are you back working with them? Last I saw you, you were happy in the Mike Hammer PI biz.”

  She shrugs.

  “Look at things. The world is too crazy to want one more inexperienced private investigator. Don’t get me wrong, I was good at my job, but I was slowly starving to death. Eating through my savings and playing a lot of Tetris waiting for the phone to ring.”

  “Bad timing, I guess.”

  “To say the least. When Marshal Wells called and offered me my old job back, it wasn’t hard to say yes. What about you?”

  “Not so different. But he told me he knew how to work a weapon, something to fight the Angra with. Turns out it was a fib. He has a bag of bones working on it. Maybe he’ll figure it out.”

  “I met him once. Creepy guy. He called me ‘tubby.’ I don’t look fat to you, do I?”

  “I don’t know. He called me ‘lardass’ last time I saw him.”

  Candy comes down the stairs.

  “Is this where the party is?”

  “Candy, this is Julie Sola. Marshal Sola these days. Julie, this is Candy.”

  Candy comes down and they shake hands. She has powdered sugar on her fingers and it rubs off on Julie.

  “Sorry,” she says, and holds out the bag she’s holding. “Want a donut?”

  “No thanks. I was just dropping off some paperwork.”

  Candy says, “You’re the private eye he talked about. You got him onto the zombie case.”

  Julie nods.

  “Yeah. We thought it was a simple demon possession at the time. He saved us.”

  “Yeah, he does that.”

  “I’ve seen you around Vigil headquarters.”

  “Don’t bring me any paperwork. I’m just this one’s unofficial assistant.”

  “Don’t worry. If you’re not on the payroll you don’t have to take the psych evaluation.”

  Candy looks at me and laughs.

  “You’re supposed to pass a government psych evaluation? Oh man, I hope you like the smell of a rubber room because that’s where you’re headed, pal.”

  “I can pass for normal if I have to.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Nancy Reagan’s wrestling coach.”

  Julie puts her hand out and I shake it.

  “Listen,” she says. “If we make it through this maybe we can work together again. Believe it or not, I still have a few clients. And I don’t think you’re going to want to stay in the Vigil forever.”

  “Sounds good. If the world doesn’t end, let’s talk.”

  She starts to put on her raincoat.

  “Don’t forget about those papers.”

  “I’ll get on them first thing in the morning.”

  Candy holds out the bag again.

  “One for the road? I have plastic wrap upstairs.”

  “No thanks,” Julie says. Then, “Shit. I almost forgot the real reason I came. Marshal Wells gave this to me to give to you. It looked important.”

  It’s an envelope. Nice, crisp, expensive paper. On the inside, it’s lined with a molecule’s thickness of gold. The thing is uncomfortably familiar. I open the note inside. It’s from Saragossa Blackburn, the pope of the whole Sub Rosa kingdom in California.

  The note says, Come see me tomorrow. At noon. I know you’re not an early riser. His signature is under that, signed with a fine pen using ink that probably cost as much as a lung transplant.

  “Thanks,” I say, and drop the note on the counter with the papers.

  “Good night,” says Julie. To Candy she says, “Nice meeting you.”

  Candy gives me a look.

  “Offer the lady a ride home, Sir Galahad.”

  I turn to Julie.

  “Want me to get you home the fast way?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No thanks. I have my car.”

  “Drive safe.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She seems nice,” says Candy, biting into a jelly donut. “What else did she bring you?”

  I pick up the note from Blackburn and drop it again.

  “I have to go and see one of the few guys in town who can call in a hit on me. I saw a kid get crushed today. I got a phone call from Downtown. And now this.”

  I look at Candy. She’s already headed for the stairs.

  “These are really good donuts.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “Don’t whine to me. You forgot the coffee. Now I have to go make some. Forget those papers for tonight. Come upstairs and have something to eat, fatty.”

  I can tell by her tone she’s going to be calling m
e that for a long time.

  Before we fall asleep I almost ask her why she never told me about the Ommahs. Almost. Maybe I’ll ask later when we’re not so tired. Yeah, then.

  I CAN’T SLEEP, so I get up at the crack of eleven. Candy is still asleep, so I pull on my clothes quietly and go into the bathroom to brush the taste of lard and sugar out of my mouth. We killed most of the bag watching Barbarella and Danger: Diabolik last night. I don’t need to experience the wonders of fried dough again for a year.

  I’m sick of hiding from the world, moving through the Room all the time. When I’m ready to leave I go around to the alley beside Max Overdrive and uncover the Hellion hog. It’s a little something I picked up in Hell, back when I was playing Lucifer. I wanted a motorcycle so I could get around by myself and not always in a clown-­car presidential motorcade. I asked the local demon techs to throw together a 1965-­style Electra Glide. They did their best. In fact they did a great job, but what they came up with was a lot more Hellion than Harley. The bike is built like a motorized rhino with handlebars that taper to points like they came off a longhorn’s head. The pipes belch dragon fire and when I kick the bike hard, the engine glows cherry red like it wants to shoot off into the sky, a panhead Space Shuttle.

  But it’s not just kicks I want right now. The overcast skies mean there aren’t many good shadows to move through. Plus, I don’t want to spook any of Saragossa Blackburn’s guard dogs by appearing out of nowhere. When I get to his place, I want them to hear me coming.

  I kick the bike into gear and it roars like a hungry Tyrannosaurus. At the curb, the water comes up almost to the tire hubs, but the bike doesn’t slow. The engine boils the water around us and every time I stop I’m enveloped in a cloud of steam.

  The streets through Hollywood in the direction of the 101 are as snarled as ever, though some of the side streets are starting to be passable. ­People running for their lives 24/7—­hell, even L.A. has to start emptying out sometime. I’d love to collar one of the runners and ask them why they’re going, but I know what the answer would be. Aunt Tilly is sick in Nebraska. There’s a vegan lute hoedown in Portland. Skull Valley Sheep Kill is headlining a nonexistent music festival in Houston. Lies, all lies, and they know it, but do they understand it? It’s animal stuff. Zebras don’t hang around a watering hole when the lions show up.