A Devil in the Details (10 page)

It was a fifteen-minute drive to his house, and in that time I crossed from neatly mowed suburbia into nearly rural territory. Yards in this neighborhood bordered on fields and pastures, and the once- paved streets had long since gone to gravel. The last event of note here happened last summer when some cattle got loose and spawned a seven-mile low-speed chase. (Rumors of my alleged involvement in that bovine escape are highly exaggerated.)

I parked in the front yard and waved to Marty’s wife, Melanie, as she pulled out of their drive. “He in bed yet?”

She rolled down her window. “Nah, he’s out in the shed. There’re pancakes left in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks, Mel!” I must look positively emaciated. People are always trying to feed me.

Marty worked nights, so I had even odds of catching him before he went to bed for the day. It seemed to be my lucky day so far. I could hear the static spit of the arc welder as I walked around the house to the workshop.

A detached garage in a previous life, the shed had been converted into the manliest of manly domains, a refuge for all who revel in testosterone. The back corner was largely taken up by the forge and anvil, but there were also four motorcycles and one lawn mower (don’t ask) in various states of disassembly, an arc welder, and most important, a beer fridge.

I didn’t bother to knock. He wasn’t going to hear me.

Duke greeted me first. The young brindle mastiff rose from his pile of shop rags near the door and padded over, his tail swaying happily. He was the product of my neighbor’s last litter, and Marty had been more than happy to take the runt. If Duke was the runt, I didn’t want to see his siblings. At only seven months old, he was still growing to be the size of a large horse in short order. I couldn’t wait to see what he weighed in at, fully grown.

Despite his impending hugeness, he had the sweetest temperament I’d ever seen in a dog. It never fazed him when Anna pulled his ears, crawled all over him, stepped on one of his enormous paws. The big wimp would turn and run from any unexpected noise, and he cowered at the sight of the Chihuahua next door.

His doggy breath was warm on my hands, and it was an effort to keep him from bathing me with that huge pink tongue. I scratched his ears, and he rumbled in contentment, leaning against my thigh hard enough to almost knock me over. “You spoiled thing.”

Marty, bare chested but welder’s mask firmly in place, was working over something I didn’t even recognize. It takes a real man to weld with no shirt on—or an idiot. He was possibly both.

The welder threw off strobes of light, casting his extensive tattoo sleeves in strange dancing shadows. The stylized Celtic wolf on his right forearm almost looked as if it were snarling at me. I shielded my eyes from the glare, looking away. The welder hissed and spat a few more times until I heard the knobs on the power supply being dialed down. Marty, his helmet perched atop his head now, smirked at me when I dropped my hand. “Wuss.”

“Bite me. You’re wearing a mask.”

“I’ve eaten, thanks.” He laid the helmet and torch aside, then ran a towel over his shaved head. I still can’t figure out why, when a guy thinks he’s going bald, he shaves his head. It didn’t keep me from seeing the hints of gray in his black beard. And he was two years younger than I. I resisted the urge to check my own facial hair for signs of aging. “Go lie down, Duke.” Obediently, the mammoth mutt padded off to curl up on his bed again. “You’re here for your stuff?”

“Yeah, if it’s ready.”

“It’s ready. Not sure I wanna give it to you, though.” He cast me a disgruntled look as he rose from his stool. He was built like a fireplug, short and stocky with muscle mass attributed to long years of work at the anvil. In all truth, although I towered over him in height, I wouldn’t want him getting his hands on me in a fight. I firmly believed he could break me in half. “What the hell did you try to do—chop down trees with it?”

It is a fact of life. Marty’s swords are his babies. Mistreat them at your own peril. “You knew it was going to get used when you gave it to me, man. And it’s held up to everything I’ve thrown at it.” Yes, Marty knows what I do. But he’s never seen it. I think there’s a large leap to be made between knowing and seeing. He couldn’t fathom the things that sword had been through.

He grumbled under his breath and tossed a jingling duffel bag at me. It hit me in the chest hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. “The chain was easy enough to fix. There’s a set of new leg guards in there, too. Trying to see if I can get the plates whittled down enough to be useful.”

I glanced into the bag long enough to be certain he hadn’t affixed metal plating to the rest of my armor. “I can’t move in that stuff, man. Binds me all up.”

“Just try it out, okay? If it works, you won’t have this problem with stabbing wounds anymore.”

He had a point. Chain just wasn’t meant to stop a piercing blow. That I’d survived this long was either a testament to my skill, or my pure dumb luck. I wasn’t sure which.

Five swords of various styles rested in the rack on the back wall. I eyed a rather vicious-looking kopesh while Marty retrieved my katana. He brought it to me for examination, drawing it from its bamboo sheath with the same reverence I showed it.

Marty worked with 1075 high- carbon spring steel. The swords had full tangs and guards and pommels of either solid bronze or steel. With proper leverage I could bend a sword nearly in half, only to watch it snap back to perfect form every time. I’d seen him knock chunks out of his own anvil with a blade and never mar the finish on the sword. He took pride in his weapons.

“There were some bad nicks, but I got them worked out. I’m gonna start on a new one for you. Not sure how much more this one’s gonna take. She’s had a hard life.”

Boy, didn’t I know it. “How about that kopesh there?”

Marty snorted at me. “You couldn’t handle that one. Stick with the katana.” He perched himself on his worktable and picked up his twelve-string guitar, his burn-calloused fingers moving over the frets absently. It’s what he does when he’s annoyed. When he’s actually playing, he’s damn good.

He was right, of course, about the kopesh. I didn’t know the first thing about fighting with one of the wickedly curved blades. Still, I could add that to my list of things I’d like to learn someday. “What do I owe you?”

He strummed a few bars of “Stairway to Heaven,” and I threw a greasy rag at him in retaliation. No self-respecting guitar player plays that song. “I had all the stuff already. You buy the beer next Sunday.”

“Done.” The beer deal was the ultimate bargain between men. Marty puttered around the shop, bedding the place down for the day, and I leaned against the fridge. “Hey, what’d you get your mom for her last birthday?”

He glanced at me quizzically. “We all went in on a new flat-screen TV for her and Dad. Why?” Damn him. Marty-of-the-six-brothers—he could afford to do something like that.

“Having a barbecue for Mom’s birthday on Saturday, and I still don’t know what to get her.”

He whistled lowly. “Damn, man. You’d better get on it.”

Thanking him most profusely for his jewel of wisdom, I took my leave (paying my respects to Duke, too). I tossed the duffel bag into the back of my truck with a jingling thump and laid my sword nicely on the passenger seat. The sword got buckled in, even. Always show respect to your weapon.

I tucked my earpiece into my ear and speed-dialed my little brother as I pulled back out into traffic. It rang three times before he answered.

“Cole Dawson.”

“Hey, little brother.” Yes, my brother’s name is Cole Younger Dawson. Mine is Jesse James Dawson. My father had an outlaw obsession, and for some unfathomable reason, my mother didn’t veto his name choices. Don’t call me JJ. Only one person gets to call me JJ, and you look nothing like my ninety-six-year-old grand-mother.

“Hey, big brother. What’s going on?” I could hear a police radio squawking in the background. He was obviously working.

“Calling to touch base with you about Saturday. You coming?”

“Yup, got the day off work. Steph and I are bringing Nicky and some pasta salad thingy.”

“Cool, cool . . .” That would make Annabelle happy. She adored her cousin Nicky. “So . . . what are you getting Mom?” There was a long moment of silence that said so much. “Crap, you don’t have any ideas, either.”

“Steph said she’d find something.” He sounded sheepish. I don’t think cops are supposed to sound sheepish.

“Mira’s making me do it myself.”

He snickered at me. “Well, if you’re lucky, that storm front they’re predicting will move in and we’ll have to cancel. Give you more time to shop.”

“Are you kidding? Mom’ll have us out in the yard with umbrellas to protect the grill and the cake.”

His radio blared an unintelligible message, demanding his attention. “I gotta go, big brother. See you Saturday.”

“See ya.” I sighed and hung up.
Dammit!
And I’d forgotten to tell him about the belligerent tailgater from last night.
Crap crap crap
. Oh well, it’d wait another day.

I missed Cole.

Outwardly, my brother and I were a study in opposites. Sure, we both topped six feet tall, but where I was skinny to the point of scrawny, Cole had more bulk, earned on the police gym’s weight benches. Instead of my blond, Cole’s hair was chestnut brown with a hint of curl if he didn’t keep it cropped short. We shared the same sharp nose and blue eyes, but Cole’s eyes always seemed to fade more toward gray.

Aside from the few incidents as boys where we’d wholeheartedly tried to kill each other, we’d been close. Cole even credited his career in law enforcement to my brief stint with lawlessness. Even as adults, after we’d gone our separate ways, hardly a day went by that we didn’t talk, and we always kept up our good-natured competition. I got the first college education, but he landed the reputable career. I bought the first house; he bought a bigger one. He married first, but I had the first kid—that sort of thing.

Things changed, after Nicky came.

Even at barely five years old, my nephew was probably the strongest person I’d ever known. That child had been through more pain and suffering in his short life than any person should have to see in ten lifetimes. I’m not sure the doctors know everything that’s wrong with him yet.

He was six months old when they nearly lost him. I can’t count how many nights Mira spent holding Stephanie’s hand at the hospital. Twice, the priest was called, and even Mira gave her own form of last rites. It wasn’t a matter of if; it was a matter of when.

That’s when Cole made his deal. I couldn’t tell you how the demon found him, but I’m willing to bet they haunt hospitals, places where people are at their most desperate. Looking back, I’ve always tried to figure out whether I realized Cole was gone extra long that night? If I’d gone to find him, could I have stopped it all? But I didn’t, and it was done.

Within hours, Nicky’s vitals had stabilized. They took him off the machines. He smiled for the first time. We were so happy with his miraculous recovery, it never occurred to anyone to ask how. Back then, who knew to be suspicious of unexpected good fortune?

I still remembered Cole coming to me one sunny summer day at Mom’s. Nicky and Anna were just crawling, and content to play in the dirt. Dad and Mom were fussing over the placement of the checkered tablecloth, while Mira and Steph just set the table without waiting for the discussion to be resolved.

“Jesse?” That’s what got my attention. He never called me by name. I examined his face closely and saw something dark in his eyes, something terrifying. He looked scared. My brother-the-cop was never scared, even when he ought to be. “I think I did something really bad.”

He showed me the writhing brand on his left arm, the sigil that marked his soul as someone else’s property. He introduced me to a world of demons and nightmares I hadn’t even known existed. And he asked me if I knew any way out.

Now, realize that my wife is a witch, as in Wiccan. But her magical abilities are something separate and apart from her religion, and at that time, I had no idea this stuff existed. I accused Cole of getting drunk and tattooed. I laughed in his face. It took some time to convince me he was really in trouble. After that, though, it was on.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? He was my little brother, and he was in deep. He explained to me about the contract, what the tattoo meant. And it stood to reason that a demon that would make one deal would make another. In the movies, people made challenges with the devil all the time, right? Golden fiddles and shit. I didn’t know all the rules, but I knew how to fight. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever been good at. And I knew that turning a blind eye was worse than anything else.

I fought for his soul. I fully admit that I won only through sheer luck. It should have made us closer, surviving something like that. Instead, we drifted apart.

Maybe he knew I always harbored a faint disappointment in him. Maybe he couldn’t handle my knowing his dirty secret. Maybe he just hated himself for not making a better deal when he had the chance. He’d bargained for Nicky to live, that one time, not for his continued good health. The demon got the better of Cole. Maybe it ate at him. I don’t know. Like I said, we don’t talk much anymore.

I brooded on that way longer than I should have—most of the drive home, in fact. We’ll pretend that’s why I didn’t notice the blue Ford Escort in more than a passing way until I was nearly home.

In all fairness to me, though, I had no reason to notice it. I mean, it’s an Escort, right? The most innocuous car known to man. It wasn’t driving erratically; it wasn’t even that close to my truck. It was there, three cars back, the driver no doubt minding his own business and thinking things such as “Man, my hemorrhoids hurt.” If not for the incident the previous night and the sudden feeling of ants crawling all over my arms (never a good sign), I never would have noticed it at all.