01 Summoned-Summoned
SUMMONED
by Rainy Kaye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by any means, without the permission of the author. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
Copyright © 2013, Rainy Kaye.
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-938750-08-3
First Edition.
Thank you:
Arlene Nicholson for the being the first person to ask for the next page and then letting me have as many nervous breakdowns as I needed; Natasha Larry for being the best writer wife, ever; Kris Wagner for the fantastic graphic design and not throwing me into the gar pond on revision thirty-seven; Alexandra Aubart for being an amazing help with getting this project into the world while finding genie comics; Anastasia Evans for all the late night ramblings about apples; Rebecca Hamilton for the overwhelming support and the Tweet that made it happen; Rossano Trentin for being an awesome agent; Marcin Rychły for the phenomenal photography; Adam Jakubowski for using his talents to bring Dimitri to life; Yasir Iqbal for tolerating my madness; and all of my aspiring overlords on Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus for the support, love, and Nine Inch Nails sing-alongs while I listened to Pretty Hate Machine on repeat during the Summoned write-a-thons.
You rock.
Credits
Cover Design: Kris Wagner
https://www.facebook.com/digitalgunman
Model: Adam Jakubowski
https://www.facebook.com/LadyJakubowsky
Photographer: Marcin Rychły
https://www.facebook.com/karrdepl
I dislike having to murder someone. Kidnapping is worse. At least when I setup a kill, I know what's coming. No connections, no honesty, no surprises. Everything I say and do are just steps to luring in my victim. Once the victim falls right into the trap, the next move is swift: crushed windpipe, fatal concussion, or a good ol' fashioned headshot.
Kidnapping, on the other hand, is a little trickier. First, the victim has an opportunity to respond. I don't like this. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they manage to alert the authorities. And sometimes they escape, usually by inflicting bodily harm on me.
Dead people don't retaliate.
The second major difference between killing and kidnapping is my conscience. I get in and out with a kill. We have no chance to bond.
Abductees require a little more one-on-one. As much as I try to keep the switch turned off, I can't help but listen to their pleas and demands. And I usually realize I'm a jerk.
That's exactly where I find myself one late afternoon in June. I prefer doing this at night, but moreover, I would prefer not doing this at all.
Instead, I have a belligerent nine year old girl sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda Accord, shackles on her wrists and ankles and a small stuffed bunny on her lap. She's eying me in a way that makes me self-conscious. Like I'm the bad guy.
Probably because I am the bad guy.
“My dad will shoot you!” She glares at me. “He has lots of guns and knows how to use them good. He'll shoot you.”
Right now, that feels more like a mercy than a threat. I focus on the road and say nothing.
“But you won't die, and he'll call the police, and you'll go to jail!” She rattles her chains like a new specter trying out the haunting thing.
And she keeps rattling them.
I clamp my jaw and tighten my hold on the steering wheel.
The clanking grows louder. From the corner of my eye, I catch she is shaking the chains at me. She's nine. She's angry. This is all she's got.
It's annoying as shit.
“Okay! Stop it!” I reach for the middle chain to still her.
She shrieks. High pitched, icepick to the eardrum shrieks.
I snap my hand back to the steering wheel. “Please stop.”
She shrieks louder. Dear God.
“Enough!”
She silences. Her eyes are fixed on me though.
I'm supposed to be the bad guy here. Probably a good idea to say something bad guy-ish.
I got nothing.
My conscience sneaks in, whispering questions about what is going to happen to her after delivery.
Ransom, I decide. She will be held for ransom.
Truth is, I will never know.
I bet she is in a lot of extracurricular activities. Star of her class, ringleader of her friends, exasperation to her parents.
They don't know she's missing yet. She was heading home from school when I cut her off at a crosswalk, slapped the chains on her in the backseat, and peeled away. I am a pro at this.
Unfortunately.
If I didn't know better, I would think she was too. She sang. In the backseat. At the top of her lungs. The Song That Never Ends.
Come to find out, that song never ends.
Ever.
So we struck a deal. She would stop singing, and I would let her ride in the passenger seat.
It was a compromise. Her first offer was that I let her go.
Nice try, kid.
She juts her chin. “Where are you taking me?”
“A big house.” I bat my hair out of my eyes. “A mansion. With lots of expensive things. There's maids and cooks. Huge yard with a pool that might as well be a lake. Has a waterfall and everything.”
“Is there a pony?”
“Well, there's—” I stop and glance at her.
She's fuckin' with me.
I groan and slouch in my seat. Not very bad guy-ish, but I think she's already figured out I'm a poser.
“Look, just be quiet, will ya?”
She starts screaming again.
Mental note: bring a gag next time.
The thing is, I'm not afraid of the cops. They're more of a nuisance than anything.
Want to scan my record? Go for it. Leo Hartz is clean.
And my real name, Dimitri Hayes? I do not exist.
I don't have fingerprints—they were seared off—and any of my DNA in the federal system links to long discarded aliases.
Thanks to me, cold cases litter the desks of investigators across the nation.
I frown. Hopefully another file isn't going to be added soon.
The city gives way to desert: packed dirt, patches of dry brush, and a few tall cacti. Purple mountains stand against the empty sky.
After ten minutes or so, I roll down her window a quarter of the way. We could both use some fresh air.
The drive isn't over yet.
Despite her shackles, she manages to push herself up on the door and wedge a hand in the crack. The stuffed bunny rolls to the floorboard. She ignores it and tries to force the window down farther. Probably thinks she can leap out. Wouldn't surprise me if she tried.
“You need to sit,” I say, voice even.
“I'm planning my escape,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“I see that. Can you stop?”
“If you kill me, my dad will track you down.” She drops back into her seat and looks at me again. “He'll track you down and kill you back.”
Great, I picked up Liam Neeson's daughter.
“Yeah, I'm not worried about your dad, 'kay? Just be quiet.”
“What's your name?”
In the eight years I've been doing this, I've never had such an inquisitive victim. Normal kids freak out. I just drug the adults. They're too difficult to move otherwise.
I'm not exactly built for hauling around people against their will. When I learned what I would spend the rest of my life doing, I tried to pack on a few pounds. I was fifteen, and the job description didn't make pumping iron a thrill.
So I traded in the weights for a couple of guns and a supply of benzodiazepines. I won't use the benzos on the kiddies, though. Too dangerous.
I turn onto a dirt road, and the car bounces along. Hondas get great mileage, but they aren't designed with this terrain in mind.
Not a big deal. When the Accord finally gives out, Karl will have another vehicle waiting for me. Whatever I need, I get. It's not as exciting as it sounds, especially since I can't draw attention to myself.
No fancy rides, no fawning ladies. Just a nondescript car and all the ammo and tranqs a guy could want.
Up ahead looms solid metal gates set in a twenty-foot high brick wall.
My passenger goes quiet. I have stopped making sense of her words a while ago. The gates roll to either side, and she sits forward into the dash.
“Wow.” Her voice is a soft breath.
For a moment, she has forgotten she's going to die.
Wait, held for ransom. That's the story, and I'm sticking to it. I might believe it with enough whiskey. As soon as this delivery is over, I'm heading straight to the bar. The trip back from the mansion is the worst part, though. The silence. The thinking.
I press on the gas and drive up the long carport. On either side, the landscaping is like a mirage. Tall arching trees. Manicured hedges whose maintenance alone cost more than the upkeep on my car. A pond that would look impressive if I didn't know there really is a pool with a waterfall on the other side of the estate. And the pool is nothing compared to the tennis court, the ten-car garage, and the empty horse stable.
The mansion itself stands three stories high and sprawls so far I sometimes wonder if anyone has ever walked it end to end. There's at least a dozen covered patios with stone archways. I can't even guess how many balconies.
Uniformed men bust through one of the four sets of double-doors and head straight for my car. My passenger screams. This time, it is real terror.
The men yank open the side door and drag her out. Not so much as a nod at me. They carry her back the direction they had come, disappearing into the mansion.
Silence.
I will never see her again.
The stuffed bunny is still on the floorboard. I lean over to pick it up and toss it into the glove compartment.
During the drive back to the city, I sing The Song That Never Ends to drown out my thoughts.
***
Kocktail Kittens sits right off the freeway. It's a dive bar, and it really should have been named Kocktail Kougars. Not my thing, but I'm not exactly looking for takeout, anyway. Just enough booze 'til I need a cab and assistance remembering how my front door opens.
I slide up to the bar and throw Leo Hartz's credit card on the counter. “Tab, whiskey shot and a Jägerbomb to start.”
The bartender—a wrinkled woman with fading dark hair pulled into a bun and thin red lips—snags the card with Freddy Krueger nails. She winks.
“Sure thing, hon.” Her voice is phlegmy.
She sashays off to pour the drinks.
I turn and scope out the room. A few small tables sit to one side, and a neglected karaoke machine to the other. Next to the karaoke machine is a pool table, where the handful of other patrons are gathered around.
They all look like they have been living this lifestyle for a few centuries. Probably regulars. I wouldn't know for sure, because I'm not. The last thing I need is someone to notice how often I switch names on credit cards. Or to be able to identify me.
Like my car, I'm rather nondescript. Average height, brown eyes, dirty-blond hair that usually could do for a trim. Sometimes I shave. Today is not one of those days.
Maude leans forward as she pushes my drinks toward me. Her neckline plunges so low it looks like she forgot to button up.
I drop the Jäger into the beer and chug it. Does anyone with taste buds actually like this crap? The whiskey chases after, burning my throat.
I thud the shot glass back to the bar. “Another, please.”
“Long day?” Her claws tap on the counter. Those things should be registered weapons. “You seem tense.”
I hope this routine is a bucket list entry for her. She's terrible at it.
“Nah, won the lottery and cured cancer.” I nudge the empty glasses toward her. “Please.”
She huffs and stalks away to pour another round.
