Date: 2013-04-16 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Urban Fantasy; Short Stories; Fiction; Fantasy; Thriller; Crime; Mystery; Supernatural
Description: In this terrifying tale by New York Times bestselling author Richard Kadrey, a young aspiring serial killer goes in search of a mentor—the supreme, the ultimate killer. What he finds is much greater and much worse than he ever could have imagined.
Publisher: Harper Voyager

Suspect Zero
a short story

Richard Kadrey

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Excerpt from Kill City Blues

About the Author

Also by Richard Kadrey

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The rain that had pissed down all afternoon turned cold when the sun set, and it kept getting colder all night.

The boy waited on a corner among the nearly deserted warehouses. He waved at a passing eighteen-wheeler and it slowed to a halt, pulling over at the corner. The cab was taller than the boy expected. He had to climb up a couple of chrome steps to get inside. The drizzle made the metal slick and he slipped and almost fell, but the truck was warm and dry when he made it inside. The boy shivered and wrapped his arms around his old navy peacoat, trying to get warm, careful to keep his hand away from the pocket where he’d hidden the knife. For now, it was nice just to be out of the rain.

“What’s your name, son?” asked the driver.

“Gabriel.”

“Like the angel,” said the driver as they pulled away.

“I guess. Supposed to be for an old relative. He was a general in the Civil War.”

“I never heard of him.”

“He didn’t last long. I don’t think he was much good.”

The driver scanned the road ahead. Turned left, prowling the wet potholed streets. Water rolled down the gutters, miniature rapids.

The boy looked at the driver. He was wearing a heavy plaid hunting jacket. It made it hard to tell how big the guy was. His face was thin and covered with a couple of days’ worth of gray stubble. His lank hair was pulled into a ponytail and held back with a grimy red Peterbilt baseball cap. A plastic eyeball tacked to the truck’s dashboard swung back and forth like a pendulum ticking out the time.

“What do you do, Gabriel?”

“Mostly travel these days. I move around a lot.”

The driver nodded.

“Some people are farmers and some are nomads. I’m a nomad. The Akkadians and Sumerians, they were nomads. They settled down, built up the first civilizations. The Mongols and Huns were nomads. They came along later and kicked those civilizations down.” The driver laughed. “It’s a good life for the right kind of people. Are you the right people, Gabriel?”

“I sure as hell am tonight. Anything that’ll get me out of the rain,” he said, hugging himself tighter, feeling the reassuring press of the knife against his leg.

The driver grinned.

“Don’t sell yourself short, son. I have a feeling you’re more than that.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’ve been around for a while. You can’t help but learn to read people.”

“What’s your name?” asked Gabriel.

The driver hunched his shoulders and peered out the windshield, straining to read street signs through the rain-streaked glass.

“Damn it. I know you’re around here somewheres.”

Gabriel didn’t talk while the driver hunted for the destination. As he grew warmer, Gabriel relaxed.

The driver asked, “You know, I just realized I’m so wrapped up in these streets I never asked where you’re headed.”

“Far as you can take me, sir. Anywhere that’s drier than here.”

“Good answer. I could use a little company. I’m heading out of town tonight, but I’ve got part of a load left and work to do. Hope you don’t mind a few stops along the way.”

“No, sir.

“And if you get bored or what you see looks interesting, jump on in. But no pressure. Good work is its own reward, but you being the right kind of people probably already know that.”

“I suppose. Yeah.” He didn’t know what else to say. What was with the “right kind of people” thing? Had he let something slip? Did the old man know what he was there for? This time he let his hand brush the hilt of the knife, the one thing he still had from home.

“Grab me a pop out of that cooler by your feet, will you?” said the driver.

Gabriel leaned down to where a red-and-white plastic picnic cooler rested on the floor. It was the kind where the lid swiveled back on a hinge and the top opened like a trapdoor. When he popped open the top a plastic-wrapped .45 automatic fell out onto the floor.

“I was wondering where that’d got to. Thanks, son.”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, the driver bent over, grabbed the gun, pulled the plastic off with his teeth and stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket.

A second later he looked to his left and said, “Thank you, Jesus and all the little baby Jesuses in Jesustown.” He turned the wheel hard, swinging the big truck around and backing it against the loading dock of an old brick warehouse. It was too dark and wet for Gabriel to read the name of the place.

The driver climbed down from the cab the moment the truck stopped moving and disappeared around the side. Gabriel listened to the sound of the trailer door opening and boxes sliding out. The driver appeared by his window a moment later, pushing a dolly loaded with boxes and gesturing for Gabriel to follow him in.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

He didn’t want to get out of the truck and back into the rain, but Gabriel climbed out and followed the driver. After a few steps the old man stopped.

“Grab this for me, will you?” he said nodding to the dolly piled with boxes. “I got to find the damn paperwork.”

Gabriel tipped the dolly back, letting the load settle onto his body. It was surprisingly heavy. The old man was stronger than he looked. He’d have to remember that.

As they reached the door, the driver gave a loud “Aha!” and pulled a pink packing slip from his right rear pocket. He held the warehouse door open for Gabriel and followed him in.

A balding man with a beer gut and ballpoint pen behind his ear was counting boxes on a loading pallet and ticking off boxes on a piece of paper on a clipboard.

The driver called out, “What’s the good word, Sonny?”

The balding man looked up and his face broke into an easy smile.

“How are you doing, ramblin’ man? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

Gabriel watched them shake hands and talk bullshit. Annoyed, he stood the dolly upright, tired of holding the weight.

“Who’s the sprog?” asked Sonny, glancing at the boy.

The driver held out his hand in Gabriel’s direction.

“This is Gabriel. He’s helping me out tonight.”

Sonny held out his hand and Gabriel shook it.

“Any friend of this road hog is welcome around here.” He turned back to the driver. “What’ve you got for me tonight, good sir?”

The driver handed Sonny the paper he’d fished from his back pocket. Sonny attached it to his clipboard, glanced at the dolly and nodded. He pointed to an open area near the pallet he’d been counting earlier.

“You can drop those right over there, son.”

I’m not a goddamn pack mule, thought Gabriel, but he kept quiet, not wanting to end up back in the rain. He leaned the dolly back, rolled it to where Sonny had indicated and began unloading boxes. It was late in the week, Gabriel knew. Friday night or maybe even Saturday. There was only a skeleton crew working. Just five other men spread out through the warehouse. As he unloaded the boxes, he listened to Sonny and the driver talking in low voices, laughing occasionally. He wondered if they were laughing at him. They wouldn’t be laughing if he pulled the knife. He could have it out in less than a second if he wanted. He’d had plenty of practice and knew all the places you could pigstick a man without hitting bone.

He walked back to where Sonny was examining the paperwork. The bald man nodded to him.

“This feller’s been telling me you might go out on the road with him. Looking for somewhere sunnier. I don’t blame you. Me, I like the cold, but everyone’s got to find their place in the world.”

“Amen to that,” said the driver.

Sonny ticked off a couple of boxes on the delivery slip, signed at the bottom and tore off a carbon. The driver folded it up and slid it into the same pocket from which he’d pulled the original.

He started to turn away, but stopped.

“I forgot the other thing, Sonny.”

“What was that?”

The driver pulled the gun from his pocket so fast that Gabriel didn’t know what was happening until he heard it go off. Sonny dropped the clipboard and fell to his knees, clutching his beer belly. He stayed kneeling and swaying until the driver lowered the .45 and shot him in the back of the head. Sonny went down hard. For a second, Gabriel couldn’t breathe. He wanted to look up at the driver, but it felt like his eyes were stuck on Sonny’s body by a powerful magnetic force. He didn’t move until he heard the driver’s voice.

“Hey. You just going to stand there? This is a work night. Come on.”

The rest of the crew had scattered all over the warehouse at the sound of the first shot. It didn’t seem to faze the driver. Gabriel watched in a kind of cold awe as he calmly walked the warehouse aisles shooting each man in turn. Like he knows exactly where they are, he thought.

The driver went into the enclosed dispatcher’s office and Gabriel followed him. The driver had the gun pointed at something behind a battered wooden desk piled high with pink, yellow and green forms. When Gabriel got closer he saw the fifth warehouse worker in a fetal position on the floor. The man was in gray overalls and worn work boots. He shook like a child lost in a blizzard. When Gabriel was close enough to lean over the desk, the driver handed him the pistol.

“I saved this one for you. It’s why you’re here, ain’t it? Why you got in my truck.”

The driver kept the gun outstretched toward Gabriel. The boy stared at it, feeling his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. He breathed and stared. He knew he was staring for a long time. It felt like years. The knife against his leg had gone cold, like it was strange and no longer a part of him. No, this wasn’t exactly what he’d gotten into the truck for, but like before, he didn’t want to end up back in the rain.

Gabriel reached out and took the gun. Pointed it at the man on the floor and pulled the trigger. He flinched at the deafening explosion. Gabriel looked at the driver, who had both hands clamped over his ears.

“Small rooms,” the driver said and laughed. “Ain’t they a bitch?”

The man on the floor moaned. They both looked at him.

“I think you missed, champ. Give her another go.”

The man on the floor whimpered loudly.

“Shut up!” the driver shouted. “Can’t you see the boy’s trying to concentrate?”

Gabriel didn’t hesitate this time. Bringing the gun up fast into firing position, he pulled the trigger. The man on the floor twitched, but there wasn’t any blood. He’d missed again.

The driver came over and patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t feel bad. You’re cold and tired. You’ll get the next one.”

The driver took the pistol and went to the warehouseman and kicked the sole of one of his shoes. He began to sing.

“When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you.”

The man lowered his hands a little and looked up. The driver shot him through the right eye.

“We’re done here, I think. You didn’t spot anyone I missed, did you?”

Gabriel looked up from the body. It took him a second to register the driver’s question. He shook his head.

“No. He’s the last.”

“Let’s do like that singer with the funny nose said and ease on down the road.”

He took Gabriel’s arm and led him out of the office, pausing only to steal a silver cigarette lighter off the dispatcher’s desk. As they passed Sonny’s body on the way out, the driver grabbed the dolly and took the signed delivery form off of the clipboard. He wadded it up and put it in the breast pocket of his shirt. Outside, he loaded the dolly back into the trailer while Gabriel got back into the truck cab.

A second later the driver climbed in and pulled the door shut. He reached behind Gabriel’s seat and pulled out a green plastic trash bag. Slipping off his hunting jacket, he unbuttoned his shirt. Gabriel looked at him, at the man’s calm, efficient movement. He took off the blood-splattered shirt, rolled it and the delivery form up and stuffed them into the plastic bag before tying the top and stuffing it back behind his own seat. Gabriel marveled at how the man had managed to shoot five men at close range without getting any blood on his coat. It must be his favorite, thought Gabriel, and he doesn’t want to have to bag it.

Chapter 2

The driver pointed to the glove compartment.

“Open it,” he said.

Gabriel pushed the release and the door fell open. It was stuffed with purple nitrile gloves. The driver leaned back, reached behind Gabriel’s seat and grabbed a clean T-shirt.

“Wear those next time,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head.

Gabriel glanced at the driver’s bare hands.

“You didn’t wear gloves.”

The driver held up his fingers in front of the boy’s face.

“Don’t need to. No prints,” he said.

“How’d that happen?”

The driver shrugged, slipping on his hunting jacket. He fired up the eighteen-wheeler’s big engine and they started to move.

“A gift of birth, I guess. I’m sort of special, but you already knew that, which is why you came looking for me.”

The driver released the brake and eased the truck forward, back onto the rainy street.

Gabriel’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

“Are you really him? I didn’t really think you were real. I’ve been traveling for such a long time. I was starting to think you were just a story.”

“I am a story, but not just a story.”

“Suspect Zero,” said Gabriel.

“I guess that’s what they call me these days. Kind of funny-sounding if you ask me. Like a space satellite or some kind of oven cleaner.”

Gabriel stared at man, wondering, if he looked long and hard enough, would he be able to see though him?

“Are you a ghost?”

The driver shook his head, his eyes scanning the road ahead.

“Naw. I’m a man just like you, only different. Go ahead. Ask your questions, son. I know you have a million.”

Gabriel couldn’t talk right then. He looked out the windshield and then closed his eyes to the smeary wet light. He breathed in the scent of diesel fumes and pressed his back into his seat, letting the truck’s vibrations rattle his bones, trying to lock into his memory all the sensations and feelings of the moment he met Suspect Zero. He’d waited for this moment for so long. It was like meeting the Headless Horseman or riding along with Godzilla. Had anyone in history single-handedly taken as many human souls as this ragged-looking man with the gray ponytail? And he never left any real clue as to who he was, where he came from or why he did what he did. He was the only name attached to hundreds of unsolved murders all across North America, not because any normal person believed in him, but because there was nothing else to call all those unsolved murders.

Gabriel’s true-crime-book-reading friends said Suspect Zero’s secret was that he was a man in constant motion, keeping to the road. That he never slept or ate. Gabriel didn’t believe that shit before and he sure didn’t believe it now the he was with him. The old man in the driver’s seat was, no damn doubt about it, a man. But Gabriel knew he was something else, too.

“How did you know it was okay to take me with you back there? That I wouldn’t freak out and call the cops?” he asked.

“First off, if you’d gone for the phone I’d have gutted you and hung you upside down from the rafters like a hog being cleaned for Sunday dinner. And second, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I recognized you the same way you recognized me. A killer knows a killer when he sees one. That’s mostly why I picked you up. It’s nice to have some company where I can kick back and just be my own self, you know?”

“Yeah.”

Gabriel relaxed, knowing the man was right. It felt kind of good not to have to pretend anymore and hide what he really was.

“What kind of knife you got strapped to your leg? I noticed it when you first got in.”

Gabriel was almost embarrassed. How stupid was he to try and hide a weapon from the Super Bowl champ killer of killers?

“It’s a KA-BAR. It was my dad’s in Nam. He was a Marine.”

The driver held out his hand.

“Can I see it?”

Gabriel slid the knife from its sheath, but held on to it for a second, uncertain.

“Relax, kid. I told you. It’s nice to act normal with someone. Our special kind of normal.”

“The right kind of people normal.”

“Exactly.”

Gabriel handed Suspect Zero the knife. The killer hefted it in his hand, testing the weight of the thing. He twirled it between his fingers like a toy, like an extension of his body. Spun it like a top on the back of his hand. He flicked his wrist and the knife fell flat on his palm with a smack. He ran it once across his forearm and handed it back to Gabriel.

“Decent grip. Good weight and balance. Looks like it’s seen some use, too. Yours or your old man’s?”

“Mine, I guess. I don’t think he used it much in the war. He gave it to me when I was ten and never asked about it again.”

“You don’t sharpen it with one of those cheap-ass grocery-store kitchen sharpeners, do you?

“Never. Only by hand, slow and careful, with honing oil and a whetting stone.”

“Good boy. A sloppy workman does sloppy work. You’d never catch a world-class chef using one of those plastic housewife sharpeners and they use their knives a lot more than we do. ’Course, I don’t want to presume how you do your work. Maybe you’re out hunting every day.”

“No. I’m not looking to break any records.”

The killer turned the wheel and they rounded a corner. He chuckled quietly.

“Liar,” he said without malice. “You think about body counts all the time. You’re a young man and young men are ambitious. You want to outdo your elders. That’s good. Smart young men need goals.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Truly, I have no idea. I gave up counting long ago. It’s like getting laid. You count the first few because it’s new and exciting, but after a few lays you’ve proved you can do it. After that, counting is kind of crude. Body count’s not the thing for me. It’s the work itself.”

“Want to know how many I’ve killed?”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“Ten. And I only started last Christmas.”

“Ten’s not too shabby. Ten puts you up there with Charlie Starkweather, but way behind that Green River fella. He got upwards of sixty. Chikatilo, that crazy Russian kid killer, got fifty-some-odd. And ten’s not half as many as some folks say Billy the Kid got, and he was dead before he was twenty-three. You look a bit older than that, so you’re already way behind. See what I mean about body counts? Going for it’s never going to make you happy.”

They rode in silence for a minute, but Gabriel couldn’t help himself.

“Just a guess though. Not an exact number. How many?”

“No idea. Seriously.”

Gabriel looked out at the buildings as the killer maneuvered the truck easily down unmarked service roads between the warehouses. He imagined he could hear the heartbeats of the workers beyond the wet walls. He was sure Suspect Zero could. He wondered if the man could read his thoughts. If he could, he was going to have to be quick, but now he wasn’t sure if the Ka-Bar was going to be enough.

“I like knives. You use a knife much?” Gabriel asked.

“I’ve used pretty much every weapon a man can use to kill another living thing. Knives. Guns. Garrotes. Spears. Arrows. A little strangulation here. A hammer to the back of the head there. Even poison a few times, though that’s pretty unsatisfying since you want to be gone by the time they keel over, so you don’t get to see the fruits of your labor. The important thing is to mix up your methods. Keeps Johnny Law on his toes.”

“It’s harder now than when you started, huh?”

The killer pulled a cigarette from an inside pocket of his jacket and lit it one-handed with the stolen silver lighter.

“Used to be, I could roll into a town, eat half the citizens and roll out again when I was done. Bury my clothes and boots and that was that. Now it’s all DNA, chemical trace analysis and carpet-fiber databases. They can track you through credit cards. Toll booths. Cell-phone towers. There’s cameras everywhere and they have biometric facial recognition software.”

“Seems kind of unfair if you ask me,” Gabriel said. “I thought about throwing Daddy’s knife away after the first couple of times I used it, but I couldn’t.”

The killer nodded.

“Just keep moving. That’s the best way nowadays. You do your work and get over the state line before anyone knows what’s happened. The simplest methods are the best and moving’ll do for now.”

“Driving this truck must be a good job for you.”

“The best. And I get paid well, too.” He turned to Gabriel. “That thing back at the warehouse. Don’t sweat it. Everyone misses from time to time. We’ll get your body count up. You’ll see.”

The killer craned his neck at something ahead. Gabriel couldn’t see anything until they were just a few yards away. The old man must see in the dark like a goddamn bat, Gabriel thought. The truck came to a stop on a street corner by an unlit bus stop. Three pretty girls in short dresses and high heels were huddled together holding damp newspapers over their heads so their hair wouldn’t get wet. The tallest of the girls, a heavyset redhead, was still waving at them as they stopped. The killer nodded for Gabriel to open his door. He leaned across the boy.

“You ladies look like you’re in need of a lift.”

“Can you? We’ve been waiting a goddamn hour for the bus.”

“You’ll have to squeeze in the back. There’s stuff there. It’ll be a wee bit tight.”

“That’s okay,” said the smallest and youngest of the three, a pretty blonde with hazel eyes and freckles. Gabriel thought she looked a lot like Penny Clark, a girl who’d lived down the street from him all through grade school, junior high and high school. He’d loved her the whole time and of the ten he’d done, hers was the only kill that hurt to remember. She was his first. It was on a balmy summer night parked at the old reservoir. He hadn’t planned it and it wasn’t fun at all. It was too quick and clumsy. And wet. He hadn’t expected that much blood. In the end, after he weighed Penny down with rocks and dumped her in the reservoir, he had to burn everything, his bloody clothes and secondhand Camaro. He’d loved that car.

When the three girls had wedged themselves into the back behind their seats, the killer let off the air brake and the truck moved back into the street. He gave Gabriel a quick smile and nod. His eyes looked darker than before, like a wolf’s.

“Thanks a lot, mister. We’re just trying to get to Club Wasteland and this silly bitch’s car broke down,” said the blonde. The brunette next to her crossed her arms and pretended to pout.

Suspect Zero asked, “Didn’t your mamas tell you girls it’s dangerous to hitchhike?”

The redhead leaned forward between their seats.

“We’re dangerous girls,” she said.

“Uh-oh,” said the killer, looking at Gabriel. “I think we might be in trouble.”

The girls laughed.

Chapter 3

The redhead said, “I’m Julia. Where are you men headed tonight?”

“It’s a work night for my young friend and me. No rest for the wicked. Say hello to the nice girls, boy.”

“Hi. I’m, uh, Gabriel,” he said. He could see some of Julia’s red hair out of his peripheral vision, but he didn’t want to turn his head in case he saw Penny.

“You’re cute, Gabe. You sure it’s a work night for you, too?”

“Definitely for him. He about screwed the pooch on our last job, so he’s going to make up for it on the next. Aren’t you?” The old man turned his wolf eyes on Gabriel. He slipped a hand into his hunting jacket and slid out the .45, tucking it under his leg with the grip out just a little.

Julia leaned back and whispered something to her friends. They all laughed, high-pitched and a little sloppy. Gabriel wondered if it was about him. He realized they were drunk. He set his hand on the knife.

“No fair keeping secrets in the cab,” said Suspect Zero. “First rule of trucking, ladies.”

The blonde spoke. Gabriel was relieved that her voice wasn’t anything like Penny’s.

“Rachel thinks that maybe you’re, you know. I mean this is like a rolling bedroom. Maybe you two are a little Brokeback Mountain?”

The killer glanced back over his shoulder at the drunken girls. All three of them started laughing. He elbowed Gabriel in the ribs and the boy smiled nervously.

“You hear that, boy? They think we’re fruit salad. A couple of dandelions. Tell them.”

Gabriel half turned in his seat.

“Uh no. It’s not. We’re not homosexuals.”

The girls burst into laughter.

The brunette repeated “homosexuals” in a low voice, mimicking him.

Gabriel slid the Ka-Bar out of its sheath.

Suspect Zero laughed along with the girls.

“Naw. It’s not like that, girls. We’re a couple of true-blue all-Americans and straight as apple pie.” He hooked a thumb at Gabriel. “The quiet one here is my apprentice.”

“Why does a truck driver need an apprentice?”

“ ’Cause the boy needs schooling. You think it’s easy reading a map and pissing in a jar while doing sixty down the interstate?”

Together the girls made an ewww sound.

“I never tried,” said the blonde.

“Give it a go sometime. Expand your horizons.”

The brunette spoke up for the first time.

“You don’t have any of those jars back here, do you?”

“No, little lady. They get chucked out the window over bridges and at parked highway patrol cars.”

He grinned at the girls as they whispered to each other. Julia leaned forward between their seats.

“Too bad we didn’t meet you two earlier. Maybe we could have walked on the wild side tonight.” The blonde and brunette fell on each other trying to stifle giggles.

“Never say never, girls.” The killer turned his nearly black eyes to Gabriel. “What do you think, son? Should we take these ripe young ladies on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” he said, moving the knife from down his leg and up into his coat.

The killer shook his head in mock disdain.

“You see? It’s not so much that I need an apprentice as the boy needs a teacher. He can’t even recognize Heaven when it’s breathing over his shoulder.”

“You talk funny, mister. I like it,” said Julia. She rested her hand on Gabriel’s arm. His body stiffened and sat up straighter.

“Why thank you, Julia. I like how you smell,” said the killer.

The brunette leaned forward between the seats and pointed.

“Can you turn left up here?”

“Sure.”

The killer jerked the wheel right hard enough that Gabriel and the girls slid against in their seats and hit the wall. They were on a narrow pitch-black block where all the streetlights had burned out. Gabriel saw the killer slip the pistol out from under his leg a little and pull back the hammer.

“Sorry, girls. Guess I heard wrong. The boy and me’ll get you sorted out in just a minute.”

“What’s with all the bags back here? They smell kind of funky,” said the blonde.

“I apologize for that,” the killer said. “Dirty laundry is part of the work and work has been messy lately. Leaks. Busted fan belts. A little blood, too. Everyone is skinning their knuckles and worse in this line of work. Isn’t that so, Gabriel?”

The boy nodded in reply, feeling Julia’s fingers flex on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you dig under your seat, son? Put on some music for the ladies.” He turned to Julia and flashed her a grin. “Something loud to cover up the sound of screams.”

Julia smiled back and slapped his arm playfully.

“Dirty old man.”

“When the wolf smells chicken he knows it’s dinnertime.”

The killer made two more sudden turns.

“Here,” said the brunette.

“Here? Here seems downright impolite.”

Julia pointed at dim lights ahead. “Club Wasteland’s right up there by the corner.”

The killer squinted.

“Really? Well I’ll be damned. I’ve been driving these streets for days and never noticed. Looks like fun. Wish I’d known about it earlier.”

“It’s probably not your kind of place,” said the blonde.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, girls. You never know who you’re going to meet on a night like this.” He let the hammer down on the gun and pushed it back under his leg.

“Open the door for the young ladies, Gabe.”

Gabriel leaned forward as the three girls slid out from behind him and stepped down into the street. Julia gave his thigh a squeeze as she left.

“Thanks, mister,” she called.

“My pleasure, girls. You have a nice time tonight. Take a walk on the wild side for me and the boy.”

“We’ll do our best,” Julia said.

“Hey Gabe,” called the blonde.

He looked at her. Penny stared back.

“Yeah?” he said.

She smiled at him. “Good luck with the pissing lessons.”

The girl laughed and the killer joined in. Gabriel pulled the door closed.

They pulled away and when Gabriel looked out the window the girls waved to him and blew kisses. He gave them a small wave back.

He turned to the killer.

“You let them go.”

Suspect Zero slid the gun from beneath his leg and put it back in his pocket.

“You noticed that, did you?”

“You had your gun out.”

“And you had your knife. You waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Gabriel stared ahead not knowing what to say.

Suspect Zero backhanded him gently on the arm.

“I was just messing with you,” said the killer. “I wasn’t going to hurt ’em. Bunch of drunk girls? Too obvious. Too easy. We’re the random factor made flesh. What we do transcends regular people’s notions of reason, which means some get to live and others die and no one but us knows why. Tonight those girls’ll run wild and tomorrow they’ll hear about what happened at the warehouse back yonder. They’ll tell their friends that they were stranded right by there. How they could have run into the killers if a couple of friendly fags hadn’t picked them up. See what I’m saying? Knowing how close they came, each of those girls carries a little piece of us with them and when they tell their friends about tonight they’ll pass it on to them. And then they’ll pass it on. That’s how legends start. That’s the beginning of immortality.”

Gabriel looked at the killer hard, like he’d never seen him before.

“Immortality? All these fucking rules? This isn’t fun. When does it get to be fun?”

“Fun? You think this is Pac-Man? This is work. The work. We can take joy in it, try to make each kill as lively as possible, but fun and games aren’t why we’re here.”

It’s why I’m here, Gabriel thought. His stomach burned. This isn’t what he’d been looking for at all. Finding Suspect Zero, getting him at arm’s length from his blade wasn’t going to be like this. It was supposed to be perfect black madness. Racing engines, burning cars and the road boiling under their feet. Dice with devil heads and a landscape of pale skin with sticky red tracings like all the roads they would travel, crushing the weak, the stupid and the innocent under their wheels. And when he’d taken what he could from the man, there’d be the explosion of pleasure when he ripped Dad’s Ka-Bar across the older man’s throat and took the truck as his prize. That’s how it was supposed to be. Instead, here I am with a scrawny, fucked-up old Ward Cleaver. I swear to God, one more piece of advice and the knife comes out. He didn’t need this “Killing for Dummies” bullshit.

Gabriel asked, “How do you choose them?”

“We can talk business later. You hungry? I could use a bite.”

Chapter 4

Suspect Zero parked the truck on the street next to an all-night convenience store. The parking lot was littered with broken beer bottles and strewn garbage from where someone had kicked over one of the cans. So many rocks had been thrown through the lighted sign over the door all Gabriel could read was NITE MART.

Before the killer got out Gabriel said, “At least tell me something real. How long have you been doing this?”

“Drivin’ this truck?”

“You know what I mean.”

Suspect Zero looked thoughtful.

“I read somewhere that scientists reckon the first humans settled in North America somewhere between twenty and thirteen thousand years ago.”

“So?”

The killer smiled. “I figure I was about fifteen minutes behind them. Come on. Let’s get some grub.”

“You sure you’re not a ghost?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. I’m just here like you, to take a walk on the wild side.”

Inside the store a boy behind the counter thumbed through a motorcycle magazine. His acne was bad and he looked young. Gabriel wondered if it was legal for a kid his age to be selling liquor.

“Where do you keep the Bud?” asked Suspect Zero.

“Cooler in the back,” said the boy without looking up from his magazine.

“Thanks.”

The killer pulled the boy over the counter like he weighed nothing. He held him with one hand while he pulled a knife from behind his back and jammed the blade into the side of the boy’s throat. When he removed it, blood fountained from his neck, out and onto the liquor bottles behind the counter.

The killer stepped back to the front door. In was the cheap aluminum kind with a lock on the inside. He turned the lock and tested the door. It held. Gabriel was surprised that no one in the store had noticed the attack, but it had been so fast and quiet.

Off to their right, a couple was going through bags of potato chips. A lone man with his back to them was loading cans of soup into a plastic basket. Three teenage boys were huddled by the beer cooler, trying to block the open door with their bodies. It was the lamest attempt at shoplifting Gabriel had ever seen. Either they had no clue about what they were doing or they knew the counter man was scared enough not to stop them.

Suspect Zero’s voice came from right next to his ear.

“Good eye. I figured those boneheads by the beer would be good for you. Got your knife?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Here,” said the killer and pressed a pistol into the boy’s hand. “Always carry backup. I’ve got more. I think this is a garrote situation for me. Happy hunting,” he said. He pulled two small pieces of wood wrapped in wire from his coat pocket and quietly went down the aisle, making his way to the man reading ingredients on soup labels.

The gun felt weird in Gabriel’s hand. He’d gone shooting with his dad, but he’d never shot anyone. He put it in his pocket and unsheathed the knife, heading for the back of the store. After all the bullshit and chatter in the truck, it felt good to move his legs again. He looked at the boys as they whispered and argued about who should carry the beer under his jacket.

But he’d never gone for anyone he never knew before, much less three. He didn’t even know if they were armed. He looked over his shoulder and caught the killer’s eye. The older man gave him a smile and mimed slipping the garrote around the man’s throat and pulling. A man in his element. Gabriel breathed evenly, trying to match the old man’s ease.

He caught the first boy in the right kidney, jamming the knife hilt deep into his back. The boy screamed and fell forward onto his face, beer bottles exploding under him. Gabriel looked at him. Guess he wasn’t the one who was going to carry. When he looked up, the other boys were frozen in place. He knew that look. The boys’ minds were still trying to understand what they’d just seen. One at a time they searched Gabriel’s face. They want to know if they know me and I’m someone they have a beef with. He stepped over the fallen boy’s body and the nearest boy, tallest, reached under his jacket for something. He had the gun halfway out when Gabriel swung the blade across his body, hitting hard at the boy’s wrist and cutting deep enough that the tendons and muscles stopped working. The boy dropped the gun. Gabriel lunged for him while he was still in shock, stuck his knife into the boy’s belly, twisting the blade slightly as he pulled up so the wound wouldn’t close.

He looked again. The third boy was running for the front door. Thinking he could push it open and escape, the boy bounced off the locked door. Screaming hysterically, he shook the door’s aluminum handle and clawed at the glass. Gabriel didn’t rush. He knew the boy’s mind was too far gone to figure out that all he had to do was flip the lock right above his head.

It had taken Gabriel a long time to learn to throw the Ka-Bar accurately. It was heavier than most throwing knives and the technique was a little different. He gripped it by the blade and threw it hard. He’d never thrown a knife at anyone’s back before and for good reason. Just like he was afraid it would, the knife dug into the boy’s shoulder blade a couple of inches, hung there and fell to the floor. There was too much bone in the back. You’d have to be William Tell to make a kill throwing it there. Still the blow to the shoulder blade had sent the kid facedown on his knees. He was crying and screaming something in Spanish, snot dripping from his nose. Gabriel rushed him, but at the last minute the boy spotted the knife, grabbed it and held it in front of him. Gabriel tried to stop, but he slipped on the boy’s blood and fell forward, landing an inch from the blade.

There was an explosion from behind Gabriel’s back and the boy’s body slammed against the door and slid down, a gaping hole in its chest. Gabriel looked over his shoulder and saw Suspect Zero leaning over the shelves a couple of rows back, his gun smoking. He nodded to Gabriel. Gabriel nodded back and headed to him.

When he got to the killer’s aisle, Gabriel found the soup man on the floor surrounded by dislodged cans. His head was almost severed from his body. The wire had cut cleanly all the way through skin, cartilage and muscle. All that held the head attached was the vertebrae at the back on the man’s neck.

The killer had the couple cornered at the end of the aisle. He waited there for him.

When Gabriel reached him the killer said, “Good work with the boys. I know you would have finished the last one, but I had the shot, so what the hell.”

“It’s cool. Thanks,” Gabriel said.

“Glad you don’t mind some collaboration.”

Suspect Zero turned his attention back to the couple. They were a couple of Goth kids, pale and skinny, dressed in shades of black and red.

The killer said, “What are you in the mood for tonight?” He pointed his pistol at the girl. “White meat?” He pointed the gun at the boy. “Or dark?”

Gabriel stood where he was, breathing hard. His throat had gone dry. He looked at his bloody hands.

He looked at Suspect Zero.

“I lost my knife.”

“That’s okay. I’ll choose for you,” he said, and shot the boy between the eyes.

Gabriel said, “I thought we were supposed to mix up how we kill. Guns twice tonight?”

Suspect Zero showed him his pistol.

“Different gun. Different caliber. Sometimes you have to improvise. I decided to do a quick one for you. Help you get your sea legs back.”

The killer stepped aside, leaving Gabriel a clear view of the girl. He reached into his pocket for the gun the killer had given him. Gabriel took it out and leveled it at the girl’s face. She held up her hands in front of her, not whimpering, just making little animal noises. She might have peed herself, he thought. For just a second he was back at the reservoir looking into Penny’s shocked and staring eyes. She’d made noises like that when the first knife thrust hadn’t killed her and he’d had to go in for a second and third. Gabriel’s throat was dry. She didn’t look anything like Penny, but he could feel the breeze on his face, the wind cooling as it passed over the water. He let the gun drop a few inches. He felt the killer move up beside him.

“Is that how it is, boy? You’re a true disappointment. I thought you were the right kind of people,” said Suspect Zero. “Guess I’ll take it from here.”

He moved past Gabriel with his knife out and grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair. There was a click as Gabriel pulled back the hammer on the gun. The killer stopped and turned to him. Gabriel pointed the gun at Suspect Zero. A slow grin spread across the killer’s face.

“You rascal you, playing possum this whole time. And here’s me starting to wonder if your heart was in the work. You planned to kill me this whole time and waited until you found your moment. That’s cold, son. Good for you.”

The killer spread his arms like wings and took a step forward.

“You want to take my truck? Want to be an eighteen-wheel nomad? Roam the country like a king taking lives and giving them to those you leave alive? You want to be me? Do it, boy. Do it. We both know it’s why you flagged me down and why I stopped.”

Gabriel looked at the floor where all the blood on his clothes had mixed with the rainwater to form a pinkish pool at his feet.

“That was before. I don’t know now,” said Gabriel. He glanced at the cowering girl. She slid down the wall to the floor. Her boyfriend’s blood had spread across the linoleum and she was half-lying in it.

The killer made a sour face.

“You don’t know? Bullshit. People never mean it when they say that. What they really mean is they know exactly what they want, but they’re afraid to take it. Don’t be one of them. You got the drop on me. You beat me. Take the shot.”

Gabriel looked at the killer and then the girl. Gabriel put the pistol to the killer’s temple and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Nothing happened. It was empty.

Suspect Zero gently took the gun from Gabriel’s hand.

“I told you a killer knows another killer when he sees one. You never hand a killer a loaded gun.”

Without turning, keeping his eyes locked on Gabriel’s, Suspect Zero shot the girl. Gabriel watched as the man walked down the aisle, opened the locked door and stood there waiting. A few seconds later he followed.

The killer unlocked the door and said, “The kid behind the counter. Take his wallet and whatever’s in the till. This’ll just be a robbery gone sour.”

“What about the security camera?”

“It isn’t working. I can tell.”

Gabriel did what he was told, stuffing the wallet and cash into the pockets of his peacoat. Suspect Zero pushed open the door and shoved Gabriel out. He’d left the truck idling. They got in and they started moving almost immediately, driving in silence for a few minutes. When Suspect Zero took the on-ramp to the freeway out of town, Gabriel finally spoke.

Chapter 5

“If I’d’ve shot you back there, would I have become you?”

“You’d have become something. More than what you are, but no. You wouldn’t become me.”

Gabriel touched the sticky blood on his chest and legs.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore. I want it to be over. Can you help me out?”

“Kill you? I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. You want to sacrifice yourself, go feed the homeless for Jesus. I’m not interested in those who want to be taken. There’s others for that kind of thing. There’s no nourishment for me in suicides. For me eating suicides is like trying to eat the fog hanging in the empty spaces between the stones on a mountainside. There’s nothing to sink your teeth into.”

“If you’re not a ghost, then what are you?”

They changed lanes several times. The killer turned the truck off the local freeway and onto the interstate.

“Please. I’ve got to know.”

Suspect Zero reached up and pulled a cord, letting loose two long blasts from his air horn. He whooped with the sound.

“I’m a road shaker and a heartbreaker.” They hit a straightaway and he looked at Gabriel. “But most of all, I’m the toll taker.”

“What toll?”

“You asked me before if I was a ghost. I’m not. But I wasn’t always such a grizzled bastard either. Hell, for the longest time I didn’t have any form at all. You people called me all sort of nonsense back then. Devil. Old Wolf. Ogoun. Soo-oop-wa. Our Lord of the Flayed One. I grew two legs, two arms and two eyes. I walked on the ground because that was what I needed to do to be near you.”

“Are you an angel?”

“Shut up and listen. Over ten thousand years you’ve been coming here. You walked here over ice bridges, marched up from the South and beached your ships on the coasts. You came to me. To the dirt. The mountains and the lightning. The rivers and the dust devils tearing up the Mojave. You wanted my blood and built your lives and homes on my flesh. Now I’m in your pavement and wires, your concrete, subways and sewers. I’ve always been here. I am this place. And you, every one of you, owes me a blood payment. Get it, boy? It’s like this truck. It’s my home. It’s me and no one rides for free.”

“You’re God.”

“Don’t be stupid. But you’re not the first who’s thought that. I’ve been worshipped and exorcised. I’ve buried you people in blizzards and earthquakes. Cooked you in brush fires burning all the way from Mexico to the Yukon. I’m the price you pay for being here.”

“You’re all that and you still can’t kill me?

“I told you. I’m not an angel or your god. I’m not here to ease your pain. You’re a nice kid. I wish I could help you out, but it’s not my place.”

Gabriel nodded thoughtfully, trying to absorb it all. His head was spinning. He only understood a little of what Suspect Zero said, but it was enough. Gabriel looked at the old man.

“You’ve been real nice to me tonight and I really appreciate it. I’ve been wandering around for so long. I’m glad I finally got to meet you. I hope you don’t think I’m rude.”

“Rude how, kid?”

“I’m going to go now.”

Gabriel pushed open the passenger door, stepped out and was gone.

The truck was doing sixty and the last thing the old man wanted to do was jackknife, so he eased on the air brakes and slowed enough that he could pull onto the shoulder and stop. He checked his mirrors, but didn’t really expect to see the boy. He was probably a good half mile from where the kid had jumped. He got out of the truck and walked to the shoulder side. There was nothing to do now but wait. He lit a cigarette with the silver lighter. He finished one cigarette and was about to light a second when he saw Gabriel crest the nearby overpass. The boy had a slight limp where the bone stuck out of his left leg and his chest looked funny and puckered where the tires had run him over. His clothes were torn and he was covered in road rash. Other than that, the boy looked pretty presentable.

The killer put away the cigarette and lighter. When Gabriel reached him he helped the boy into the truck and got in on the other side.

“I’m proud of you, son,” said Suspect Zero. “I couldn’t help you, so you helped yourself. You doubted yourself tonight, but you came through in the end. You are the right kind of people.”

“Can you help me now?”

“Absolutely. You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

He handed the boy his cigarettes and the silver lighter.

“Keep them. You earned them.”

They drove in silence. A few miles ahead, the old man took an exit Gabriel didn’t remember as having been there before. Out the window, he watched as they pulled into an enormous truck stop. A bright sign stood over the parking lot. It read END OF THE LINE. He’d never noticed it before. How could he have missed something that big in all the times he’d hitched up and down this stretch of freeway? But he’d been alive back then. Maybe that made a difference.

His door opened and the old man helped him down. The night felt light and slightly unreal. The leg with the bone sticking out didn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t work right so he was slow getting across the lot to the diner.

Inside, the place was longer than a football field, lined with rows of booths and Formica tables. Gabriel couldn’t even see the far end. The big parking lot hadn’t been more than a quarter full of trucks and their drivers and passengers were spread out over so much space that even occupied, the diner looked empty.

The old man scanned their faces, spotted one fifty rows ahead and they headed to where a pretty, dark-haired young woman was sitting by herself, nursing a cup of coffee and a plate of corn fritters. The young woman looked up as she saw Suspect Zero and Gabriel.

She smiled an easy smile and said, “Hello, you old vagrant. Long time no see. Sit down and take a load off.”

“Hello Crow, what do you know?” He and Gabriel sat down across from her in the booth. “I haven’t hauled any special cargo for a while, so I haven’t had a chance to stop in.”

Crow, the young woman, glanced at Gabriel. She was beautiful. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, but not scary dark like Suspect Zero’s eyes had been. Hers were soft. When he looked back at her, Gabriel felt something enter him. It was warm and curious, and as strange as the feeling was, he wasn’t frightened. A moment later, it had passed.

“You must really be something for this bone picker to come out of his way like this,” she said to Gabriel.

“He’s been very nice to me.”

She looked at Suspect Zero and cocked her head quizzically.

“Picking up strays? I never took you for sentimental.”

“Call it old age. Call it helping out a colleague,” he said.

“Those bones and crush marks don’t look like your work.”

“No. The boy did that himself. Straight up and out. Made the choice and did it like a man.”

She took a sip of her coffee and drew in a breath.

“Kid, if I give you a lift you know where I’m taking you, right? That old man next to you is special, but there’s only one road for human killers. That includes suicides.”

Gabriel nodded.

“It’s okay. Everything is okay now.”

Suspect Zero leaned over to Gabriel.

“Now’s when you pay her.”

Gabriel looked at him.

“She’s a professional like me. Call her a psychopomp. And she doesn’t haul freight for free.”

Gabriel patted himself down, not sure what the old man expected of him. He still had the money from the convenience store in his pockets, but he was pretty sure money wasn’t worth much here. Then he felt it in his pocket. He took out the silver lighter, set it down flat on the table and slid it to Crow. She picked it up eagerly.

“Shiny. Very pretty,” she said.

“That enough to get the kid a ride?”

“First class. He can even ride up front with me like a big boy.”

“Time for me to go,” the old man said. He slid out of the booth and looked down at Crow. “Thanks for all your help, chickadee.”

“Take care of yourself, road man.”

“That’s what I do.”

The old man squeezed Gabriel’s shoulder and said, “Try the peach pie before you go. It’s the best you’ll ever get.” Then he turned and walked away.

Suspect Zero bought a cup of black coffee and a jelly donut, which he devoured on the way back to the truck. Inside the cab, he set the coffee in a holder on the dashboard. He took the pistol from his jacket pocket, reloaded it, wrapped it in plastic and stashed it back in the cooler.

He reached down and pulled a flat bog-iron box from under his seat. Inside were seven bone cups carved with runes. Inside each cup were slips of paper in a language only he could read. He pulled one slip of paper from each cup and set them on the dashboard. They read: MAN. 30s. BLOND. BANK. INSIDE. BUSINESS HOURS. HAMMER.

The killer sighed. This was going to take a little doing, but it would be a banquet when he pulled it off. Not fun, though. He wished the boy had stuck around long enough to understand that. Not fun. Just the work. The work and the blood that feeds the land.

Don’t miss the continuing exploits of

Sandman Slim (or he will do horrible things to you)

Kill City Blues

Coming Summer 2013

It is evident that we are hurrying onward to some exciting knowledge—some never to be imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction.

Edgar Allen Poe, ms. found in a bottle

You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot farther with a smile and a gun.

Al Capone

I’m in a window seat at Donut Universe eating heart-crippling lumps of deep-fried dough with the Devil. Ex-Devil, technically, but we’re both technically ex-Devils. He was Lucifer before I was. Now he’s Samael and I’m back to just plain Stark.

I take a bite of an apple fritter.

“How’s your donut?”

Samael eyes his glazed Old Fashioned suspiciously, like maybe it’s haunted.

“Charming. Did I invent these? They taste like something designed to destroy mortals from the inside out.”

Candy says, “Nope. We came up with them all on our own.”

“How wonderfully suicidal you people are. Donuts must be the very essence of free will.”

As for the Devil job, I stuck another poor son of a bitch with that. Mr. Muninn. Some days I feel bad about it. Some days I don’t. Today the sun is out, I’m eating donuts with my girl and another ex-Devil and it’s all pretty goddamn heartwarming.

Samael says, “That man buying coffee. He sold me his soul for a 1956 Les Paul Goldtop. I don’t think he ever learned to play it. The blonde by the window. She’s thick with sin sign. She’ll sell herself by the end of the month, give or take a bounced rent check or two.”

The Devil can see people’s sins. They’re like streaks of black tar on their skin. Since I quit the damnation biz I can’t see sin sign but Samael is an angel and can still pull that rabbit out of the hat. I don’t miss doing that trick.

I say, “This is why I don’t take you to Bamboo House. I don’t want you taking an inventory of my friends.”

“Sorry. It’s a hard habit to break.”

Candy is sitting next to Samael, trying not to let on how thrilled she is to meet the original Devil. I haven’t seen her this excited since we met a furry, six-foot-tall Pikachu at a toy store in Little Tokyo.

She has her pink laptop on the table, open to Wikipedia. She’s updating the Sandman Slim page. And by updating I mean taking out all the dumbest rumors about me.

“Does it say anything about me being Lucifer?”

She nods.

“Sort of. It says you were always Lucifer and that Sandman Slim doesn’t exist. He’s just one of the Devil’s fronts.”

“You might want to take that out,” says Samael. “You don’t want any demon hunters or aspiring Crusaders taking potshots at you.”

“Yeah. Delete it all.”

Candy types something over the Devil stuff.

“Is there a picture of me?”

“A drawing. It’s pretty dumb. It’s kind of like a police composite sketch in a movie.”

“Delete it, please.”

“You got it, Chief,” she says, channeling Jimmy Olsen.

A police sketch. I’m not surprised. They’ve known who I am for a while now. So why aren’t there fifty patrol cars outside? Why isn’t there a SWAT team waiting for me at the Chateau Marmont? I’m not lucky enough that they’d lose my paperwork and all the surveillance photos. That means somebody doesn’t want me taken in, which means I have a secret benefactor. I don’t think Blackburn would do it, even if I did save his wife’s soul. He’s too political to be sentimental. That means it’s someone I don’t know about. I don’t like that. Secret friends can turn into full-frontal enemies without you even knowing about it.

“I was down in Hell yesterday. Father—Mr. Muninn—sends his regards.”

I smile at the image.

“He looks a little funny in his Lucifer armor, doesn’t he? Like a beach ball in a tin can. He doesn’t have what you’d call a classic warrior’s physique.”

Samael pushes away his donut with his fingertips.

“Are you going to eat that?” says Candy.

“It’s yours,” he says.

Smiling, she wraps the donut in a napkin and drops it in her bag. Samael looks puzzled before he realizes she’s going to keep it as a souvenir.

“Did Mr. Muninn fix up the armor any?” I ask.

Samael gives me a look.

“Of course not. The damage is part of the mystique. I noticed that you added quite a lot of burns and scrapes in a very short time.”

“Then you should thank me. I mystiqued it even more.”

Candy says, “He was cute playing Iron Man and it was fun pretending I was fucking Tony Stark, but the armor froze my boobs at night so I’m kind of glad it’s gone.”

“No, we wouldn’t want one of the few intact holy remnants of the War in Heaven inconveniencing . . . your boobs,” Samael says.

Candy smiles at him.

“Would you like me to update your Wikipedia page?”

He frowns.

“I have a page? I don’t like that. Please remove it.”

“I can’t. But don’t worry about it. It’s mostly old Bible stories and folktales. There isn’t anything about your nice suits.”

“Still,” he mutters.

“By the way, thanks for all the help when I was Downtown,” I say. “It took me three months to find your stupid clues in the library and escape.”

“I told you to read books. If you’d been more curious you would have found your way out sooner. You’re always complaining that I don’t do enough for you.”

“You do plenty, but even when you help I end up with more scars.”

“Then you should thank me,” says Samael. “I mystiqued you even more.”

Candy giggles.

“You have no idea how hard it is not to put everything you brats say on Stark’s page.”

Before Samael can explain to Candy all the reasons she shouldn’t call him a brat a guy walks up and stands next to our table. He’s wearing a loose, expensive-looking black jacket. A dark red silk shirt open at the neck. An alligator belt with a gold buckle. He looks like a rep from a talent agency that could have handled Traci Lords in her jailbait prime.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, Mr. Stark, but can I speak to you in private?” he says.

“Do my friends look like cops? If you can’t talk in front of them you can’t talk to me.”

The guy holds up his hands defensively.

“I didn’t mean to offend anyone. My name is . . .”

“Declan,” I say.

His eyebrows furrow.

“Yes. Declan Garrett. How did you know?”

“It’s just a trick I can do.”

He looks skeptical, then his inner hustler takes over and he keeps talking.

“I just thought that you and the gentleman might be doing some business and I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Yes, you did,” says Samael. “That’s exactly what you wanted. To stop a business deal.”

“I see. Because he’s in a suit and I’m not, we can’t just be a couple of friends eating donuts,” I say.

Samael looks at me.

“Are we friends, Jimmy?”

“Pipe down, Hugo Boss.”

I look back at Declan.

“You just hurt my feelings.”

“He’s very sensitive,” says Candy. “He might cry.”

“I might cry.”

Declan steps closer to the table. A salesman trying to establish intimacy with the mark.

“Would a million dollars soothe your wounded soul?”

Samael makes a tsk sound.

“Do you really think a man like this can be bought with money?”

“The answer is yes,” I say. “For a million dollars you can call me Suzi Quatro.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Jimmy.”

“Eat a jellyroll.” Then to Declan: “So what do I have to do for all the tea in China?”

He opens his hands like a preacher invoking the Holy Spirit or asking for a handout.

“Give me something more precious than gold . . .”

“I think he means me,” says Candy.

“ . . . But that you have no use for.”

Candy does a mock frown.

“Now he’s hurt my feelings.”

“Does this thing have a name?” I ask.

Declan speaks quietly. Suddenly serious.

“Come now, Mr. Stark. We both know what I’m talking about.”

“No. We don’t.”

Samael sighs.

“He means the Qomrama Om Ya.”

“Is that right?”

Declan’s lips curl in a sly smile.

“He’s a smart man.”

“Yeah he is. Ask nice and he’ll guess your weight. What makes you think I have it?”

“Because you were seen using it. On the child ghost.”

Right. I shouldn’t go pulling out god-killing tchotchkes in public.

“You got me there. I guess I did have it.”

“Did?” says Declan.

Candy nods.

“As in past tense. As in it went bye-bye, Charlie.”

Declan cocks his head. A coy move I’d call him on if I wasn’t sure it would cost me money.

“Come now. Who could take it from you, Mr. Stark?”

“A crazy angel named Aelita.”

Declan doesn’t say anything for a minute, like he’s thinking things over.

“If it’s a question of payment, I can offer you more than money. A man like you must have a use for power objects. I can offer you the Spear of Destiny. The actual spear that pierced Christ’s side on the cross.”

Samael rolls his eyes. He’s heard the line before. Candy smiles. She thinks she’s getting a new toy.

“No thanks. I already have one of those. Right between my Nunchucks of Fate and my Zip Gun of Doom.”

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” says Declan.

“How do you think I feel? I just lost a million dollars.”

“Not if you find it. If, for instance, you manage to reacquire it, I won’t ask how.”

“How open-minded of you.”

Declan’s eyes flicker to Samael and back to me.

“Can I ask what kind of business you are discussing?”

“I was updating their Wikipedia pages,” says Candy. “Do you have one? I can do yours too.”

Declan gives her an indulgent smile.

“I’m afraid I’m not nearly as colorful as these gentlemen. But thank you for the kind offer.”

He reaches into an interior pocket in his jacket and pulls out a business card. He sets it on the table.

“I suppose there isn’t a lot more for us to talk about right now. You can reach me here.”

“If I find anything interesting under the sofa cushions.”

“Exactly,” says Declan. He holds out his hand. I don’t shake it. After a minute he drops it to his side.

“Good-bye,” he says, turns and walks away.

“Bye,” Candy calls. “It was strange meeting you.”

No one talks until Declan gets outside.

Samael says, “You realize that he didn’t believe a word you said. He thinks you still have the Qomrama and that you’re selling it to me.”

“How do you know that?”

Samael pushes Candy’s hands away from the laptop and closes the lid.

“Because the man I noticed earlier, the one I said sold me his soul? He’s about to shoot you.”

He pushes Candy down and ducks himself.

The guy fires just as I turn. The shot is close enough that I feel it breeze by my ear. It hits Candy’s laptop dead center. Her head pops up from under the table.

“You killed La Blue Girl, you asshole!”

Samael pulls her back down on the seat.

The guy pulls the trigger again but I’m looking at him this time. I think he’s more used to shooting people in the back because the moment we make eye contact his hand shakes and his next shot goes through the window, cracking the safety glass. He pulls open the door and takes off across the parking lot. I’m not wasting time going for the door. I go out the broken window, glass flying across the windshields of parked cars.

Samael was right that it looks like things haven’t worked out for the shooter. He’s in a tan raincoat wrinkled enough that it looks like he sleeps in it. He’s an older guy. Mid-fifties. A bit of a gut hanging over the top of his jeans. But he runs like a fucking demon.

I chase him across Hollywood Boulevard and down La Brea. The shooter lane splits between the gridlocked cars, gracefully sliding across hoods and jumping over cars when they’re too close to squeeze between. I chase him as hard as I can but I’m not gaining much ground and I can run damned fast. This tubby sad sack isn’t normal. He’s potioned up or there’s hoodoo on him. I could fry the shooter’s fat ass with a hex but I learned my lesson after blowing up Rodeo Drive. Zipping through traffic at Mach five isn’t exactly low profile but it’s better than launching hoodoo RPGs at the guy. I don’t need a beef with the Sub Rosa right now. So I run faster.

He cuts to his right, running behind a gas station. I follow him but he clears a fence in one jump. I have to climb the damned thing. He’s gone when I hit the ground. I take off after him again.

At the corner of Sunset the shooter turns and sees me. His chest is heaving like his lungs are going to burst out of him like Macy’s Thanksgiving balloons. His eyes are twitching in their sockets like he’s maxed out on PCP. He’s definitely on a potion or two. I don’t think anyone has ever caught up with him before. He looks scared.

Then all of a sudden he’s calm. He smiles like a kid whose mom just tucked him in and kissed him good night on the forehead.

I don’t know what he’s doing until he’s already doing it.

The bus’s engine growls. Without looking, the shooter steps back off the curb, right in its path. It takes the bus another twenty feet to stop but he’s flown forty feet. All around me people are screaming. Traffic in the intersection that was moving a second ago screeches to a halt.

I muscle my way through the crowd forming around him. He’s lying facedown. I kick him onto his back, get out my phone, and photograph him. People yell at me, taking me for a gore freak looking for something hot and heavy for his blog. There’s a tattoo on the side of his neck. I don’t recognize it. I shoot that too. One of his shoes came off and his wallet is lying a few feet away. I shove my way over and pick it up. More people are yelling. I guess I’ve blown my low-profile status now. For all I know there’s a traffic camera shooting everything I’m doing.

I take out the dead man’s driver’s license and photograph that too. Then toss it and the wallet back on the ground just as a cop car pulls up. They must have been right around the corner.

Voices get shrill behind me. I don’t have to look. Villagers with pitchforks are pointing out the monster to the guys with the badges and torches. I wonder what the penalty is for pickpocketing a corpse. I can’t be the first person who’s done it. This is LA, after all.

I walk to a guy sitting on a Harley. He’s a big boy. His feet are planted on either side of the bike but his hands aren’t on the handlebars. I don’t have time for subtle. I have to move fast.

With one hand, I grab the front of his shirt and lift him off the seat far enough to toss him off the bike without hurting him too much. With the other hand, I grab the handlebars so the bike doesn’t fall. The keys are still in the ignition. I gun the engine and take off before either of the cops closing in on me can get within grabbing range.

The moment I take off they hoof it back to the patrol car. Which isn’t going to do them any good at all. The accident has turned the street into a solid mass of cars, gawkers and, now, twenty or more amateur paparazzi, cameras blasting. I steer the Harley onto the sidewalk and open the throttle, laying on the horn to clear the way. I circle the block and head back up to Hollywood Boulevard.

I ditch the bike on the sidewalk behind a pickup truck with a camper shell big enough to hide it from a patrol car rolling by.

There are six more cop cars outside Donut Universe. Patrons are out in the parking lot yammering to the uniformed cops all at once. They don’t want to hear about it. They just want the cattle to wait for the detectives while they’re busy putting up yellow tape around the crime scene.

I look around and spot Candy waving to me on the opposite corner, near a Christian Science church. Samael has his hand to his ear, talking on his phone.

Candy throws her arms around me and kisses me on the cheek when I reach them. A second later Samael closes his phone.

“Did you get him?”

“He got himself. Strolled off the curb and kissed a bus.”

“Why? You’re not that scary.”

“Yes I am.”

“If you say so.”

“How much do you have to pay a guy to go out like that?”

“You don’t. He chose to do it himself. It’s the mark of a true believer. In what, I don’t know and I don’t care. But you should.”

I thumb on my phone and go to the picture of the shooter’s driver’s license. I read it out loud.

“Trevor Moseley. Either of you ever hear of him?”

I show them his picture.

Candy shakes her head.

“I took a lot of souls back in the day but I don’t recognize his name or face. There wouldn’t have been anything special about him.”

Candy beams at Samael.

“Sam just called some people. He’s getting a new laptop.”

“Sam?” says Samael.

“Thanks,” I say.

He looks at me.

“Just thanks? Nothing pithy or sarcastic?”

“I’m capable of appreciating when someone does something nice for someone I care about.”

Samael looks at Candy.

“Good Lord. What have you done to him?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” she says. “Pinocchio is almost a real boy.”

“Fuck both of you.”

Samael, “Ah. There’s the Jimmy I know.”

He looks at his watch.

“Look at the time. I should be getting back home before I’m missed.”

“How are things Upstairs?” I ask.

“Let me just say this: Don’t die anytime soon. You’ve seen Hell and right now I wouldn’t wish Heaven on anyone. Ruach is more paranoid every day. Imagine Josef Stalin with unlimited resources.”

Ruach is the oldest of the God brothers. He’s also the son of a bitch of the family. Supposedly he’s cut a deal with Aelita to let her kill the other brothers if she leaves him alone. She’s already killed at least one.

“At least he can’t send you to Tartarus,” I say.

“There are worse things than Tartarus, I’m afraid.”

“Like what?”

Samael just shakes his head.

“If you want to get in touch with me, don’t do it directly. Go through Muninn. Sandman Slim isn’t a name I want on my contacts list right now.”

“Got it.”

And he’s gone. Just blips out of existence. It’s funny too. With all the shit that’s happened with Mason and the God brothers, I’ve never seen him nervous before.

A couple of people in the Donut Universe parking lot are pointing our way. I forgot. I wonder if the cops have put together that the hero who chased a shooter from the donut shop is that same asshole who desecrated his corpse and jacked a biker a few blocks away. This isn’t the time to find out. I find a tasty shadow by the side of the church and pull Candy inside with me.

We go through the Room of Thirteen Doors and come out around the back of the Chateau Marmont. Our digs these days. At least until someone figures out that I’m not Lucifer anymore.

About the Author

RICHARD KADREY has published six novels, including Sandman Slim, Kill the Dead, Aloha from Hell, Devil Said Bang, Butcher Bird, and Metrophage, plus the forthcoming Kill City Blues, and more than fifty short stories. A freelance writer and photographer, he lives in San Francisco, California.

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Also by Richard Kadrey

Devil Said Bang

Aloha from Hell

Kill the Dead

Sandman Slim

Coming Soon

Kill City Blues

A Sandman Slim Story

Devil in the Dollhouse

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Excerpt from Kill City Blues copyright © 2013 by Richard Kadrey.

SUSPECT ZERO. Copyright © 2013 by Richard Kadrey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780062230676

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