Greenmantle (17 page)

Lewis was afraid of the answer to that question. He was afraid that by taking Perkin’s books, by following the hundreds of threads that ran through them, the wisdoms along with the foolishness, that it was he himself who was now sustaining the hounds. That they crept out of the darkness of his own soul to chase the stag. For was that not what all the writers of these books sought? Not the mystery itself, but some method to hold it, to control and measure it, to dissect it to see what made it tick. He’d asked Mally about it once, knowing that his own search made him no better than those writers.

“You’re not alone in what you do,” she’d replied, as though confirming his worst fear.

“Then I
am
responsible?”

“How should I know, Lewis?”

“Did I make you? Are you one of my illusions? Or should I say delusions?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” he’d cried. “What are you?”

“I’m a secret, Lewis,” she said. “That’s all.”

And that was no comfort at all.

* * *

“This is a nice place,” Earl said as Lisa led him into the cottage and flicked on a light. “You had it long?”

“It belongs to my parents.”

“Are they around?” His hand drifted toward the butt of his .38.

“No. They’re in Europe.”

Earl nodded. “So where’s the phone?”

“In the bedroom—through there.” She indicated a door, then drifted into the room after him. “So are you one of these tough guys that Steve uses on his jobs?”

Earl turned to her and laughed. “Steve’s told you he pulls jobs?”

Lisa nodded. “Sure. Where do you think he gets all his bread?”

“I’ll tell you where. Steve’s got himself a dead-end job in the government and the only way he makes do is by selling dope to the people he works with.”

“That’s not what he told me.”

Earl shrugged. “I don’t care what he told you. He’s an asshole, plain and simple.”

“Well, then how’d you get to know him?”

“Even assholes come in handy sometimes. You ever try to take a shit through your nose?”

Lisa pulled a face.

“This is a private call,” Earl told her.

For a moment it looked like she was going to say something, but then her gaze met his and a weak smile touched her lips. “Sure,” she said. “No problem. I’ll wait out there on the couch.”

Earl waited until the door closed behind her, then picked up the receiver and placed his call. Collect.

“I’ll take it,” the voice on the other end said when the operator gave the caller’s name. Then to Earl, “This better be good. You know what time it is? You got a clean line?”

“Yeah. This won’t take long, Joe. Think of it as me doing you a favor.”

“I’m listening,” Broadway Joe said.

“Tony Valenti.”

“What about him?”

“Are you still looking for him?”

“What kinda game you playing, Shaw?”

Earl leaned back, stretching his legs out on the bed. “No game. I can give you Valenti, but you’ve got to move fast.”

“Gimme me your number,” Broadway Joe said. “I’ll call you back in twenty or so.”

Earl read off the number from the phone and smiled as he hung up. “Hey, Lisa!” he called. When she opened the door, he patted the bed. “We’ve got twenty minutes to kill before I get a return on my call. You want to get it on?”

Lisa stared at him for a long moment. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”

“I got more ’n that if you look in the right place, babe.”

“I’ll bet you do.” She studied him for another moment, then reached up behind her back to undo the clasp of her halter, freeing her breasts. “I must be crazy,” she said as she stepped out of her shorts and got onto the bed beside him. “I don’t even know you.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys,” Earl said as he grabbed her and pulled her in close.

Lisa just laughed.

* * *

Broadway Joe Fucceri hung up and looked across his desk to where his boss was lying stretched out on a leather couch. Ricca Magaddino had one hand behind his head, a cigarette in the other. He was a lean, dark-haired man, handsome with a Mediterranean cast to his complexion. He took a drag on his cigarette, blew a wreath of blue smoke up to the ceiling, then looked at Broadway Joe.

“So who was that?”

“That little punk Earl Shaw—the one with the coke deal.”

“Oh, yeah. What’s he want?”

Broadway Joe leaned back in his chair to put his feet up. He was in his late fifties now, ten years older than Ricca. His hair was silver at the temples.

“Shaw says he can finger Valenti for us.”

Ricca sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Do we still want him?”

“You, me, and Louie—that’s all who know what really went down,” Broadway Joe said. “Tony’s not gonna talk. Shit, who’s he gonna talk to? First cousin that sees him’s gonna blow him away.”

“You still got some feeling for him, hey, Joe?”

Broadway Joe shrugged. “You’re the boss, Ricca. You know that. The old
padrone
, he wasn’t changing with the times. But Tony—Christ, he was always so fucking loyal, you know what I’m saying? It’s hard to get dedication like that now. I mean, so far’s Tony saw it, the family was his career.”

Ricca nodded. “Yeah. I know all that. But I think maybe we should send Louie out to see what Shaw’s got. I never did like loose ends,
capito
?”

“Too bad we can’t just use Shaw,” Broadway Joe said.

Ricca regarded his
consigliere
. “Why not?” he asked. “I like that—keeps us right out of it.”

“He’s crazy,” Broadway Joe said. “We used him once in that Miami deal your old man was running through Tony, and we’re using him now for the coke thing, but I don’t want us involved with his kind of killing. He does it for fun, Ricca. And he does it messy. If we were to get fingered, just saying he got busted—”

“Nothing can hold up in court,” Ricca protested. “I mean, he’s not even one of our own people.”

“But say the story gets loose how the
padrone
really died? Say Tony says something and Shaw repeats it? The families wouldn’t like that. If we still want Tony, we’ll send my boy. That way we’ll know what’s going down. Besides, Louie’s still hurting from that Malta deal, you know?”

Ricca grinned. “Hey, there’s a reason you’re still
consigliere
, Joe. You handle this shit, okay? Any way you think is best.”

“I’ll set up a meet between Shaw and Louie,” Broadway Joe said. He pulled the phone closer and direct-dialed the number he’d gotten from Earl.

* * *

He was running, the hounds so close now he could hear the click of their claws on the asphalt. He turned to look back at them, wanting to stand and fight, antlers sweeping down, hooves flashing, but he knew there were too many of them. He could run, and that was all he could do. Run, with his heart pounding in his chest. Run, until his leg muscles ached too much to take him any farther. Run, with the burning in his tissues and the sound of the dogs’ cries ringing in his ears until he fell.

His flanks were streaked with sweat. Froth foamed around his mouth. The highway snaked on, deeper into the countryside. Then suddenly he stumbled. The asphalt tore at his skin. The dogs were on him in a flash, teeth ripping at his skin as he flailed his hooves. But it was too late. One dog, bigger than the others, sank its teeth into his throat and he—

—woke screaming.

He sat bolt upright in his bed. Brenda fumbled with the light switch beside her.

“Lance, are you—”

“Fine,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor. His pajamas clung damply to his back and chest. “I’m fine. No problem.” Except those fucking dogs had gotten him this time.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a little unfinished business outside,” Lance said. He shoved his feet into his work boots and went to the closet where he pulled out his shotgun. He cracked it open, checked its load. Empty. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, he pushed around his socks and underwear until he found the box of shells. He loaded the gun quickly, snapped it shut.

“Lance,
what
are you doing?”

He turned to look at her and she froze back against the headboard. His eyes were seeking more than just her and the bedroom.

“Lance…?” she said softly.

He looked away, still hearing the howls of the pack, and went downstairs, boots clattering. Brenda stayed in bed, clutching the sheets with whitening knuckles. She heard the back door slam shut, imagined Lance’s boots scuffling in the dirt around back. Then she buried her face in the pillow, scared again. She was always scared now, it seemed.

Lance walked slowly over to where Dooker lay sleeping. The German shepherd woke as Lance drew near and made a questioning sound in its throat. Lance only heard claws clicking on pavement, the howl of a pack hunting. He lifted the shotgun, the ends of the barrels just inches from Dooker’s head, and pulled both triggers.

The roar of the shotgun’s double blast shook him from his trance-like state. He looked at the weapon in his hands, at what was left of Dooker, and the tears started in his eyes. He threw the shotgun aside and cradled the bloody mess of the dog against him.

“Crazy,” he sobbed. “Jesus…going crazy… Oh, Dook. I’m so sorry….”

He bowed his head, sobs shaking him. That was the way that Brenda found him when she finally dared to go outside. For a long moment she stood there by the back door, staring at him, afraid to move or call attention to herself. Then slowly she crossed over to where he was and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“C-come on, Lance,” she said. “You’d better…better come in now.”

He shook his head. “Got to…got to dig a hole for ol’ Dooker, Boo. It’s… I got to do it.”

Brenda nodded. “I’ll get the shovel,” she said.

She left him there and went to the shed to get the tool, wondering just what she was going to do with Lance. He was definitely getting scary now. But he was still Lance, too. He needed help. She had to get him to go see the doc again, get him to recommend a psychiatrist—that was all there was to it.

As she returned to his side with the shovel, as she stood over him and poor dead Dooker, she realized that that was what she was going to have to do. Lance needed help and he sure wasn’t going to look for it himself.

Please, Lord, she thought. Let me be strong. Let me be strong enough for both of us.

The Huntsman’s Guile

lady, accept these words

I have lost the huntsman’s guile

following that which is lost
…
.

—Robin Williamson,

from “Song of Mabon”

The woods of Arcady are dead,

And over is their antique joy;

Of old the world on dreaming fed;

Grey truth is now her painted toy
….

—W.B. Yeats,

from “The Song of the Happy Shepherd”

1

The sun had been up for a couple of hours and it was getting on to six-fifteen when Valenti heard the sound of an engine coming up his road. He’d been listening for it. Laying down his book, he went into the kitchen area and got the UZI submachine gun from the small broom closet. He slipped out the back door.

He circled around behind the house and barn, moving as quickly as he could through the woods toward the front of his property. By the time the white Mazda had pulled into his drive, Valenti was approaching the vehicle from the road. He ducked behind the hedge as the Mazda’s door opened.

A lean, wiry-looking man got out of the car and stretched, his attention on the house. He was dressed for the country in jeans, hiking boots and a light cotton shirt, with a dark blue windbreaker overtop. Running a hand through his short blond hair, he turned to give the yard and road a quick lookover before starting for the house. By the time he reached the porch, Valenti had left the hedge and moved in closer. He stood up behind the man’s car, the UZI held down out of the man’s view.

“How’s it going?” he called softly.

The man turned, quicker than Valenti had expected, and took a smooth step to the side of the porch where he was half-screened by a cedar. His gaze locked on Valenti, one hand moving under his windbreaker, until Valenti lifted the UZI. The man let his hand drop.

“I think you’re expecting me,” he said.

“Could be.” Valenti came around the car, holding the UZI in both hands now, his finger taking up the slack against its trigger. “Where’re you from?”

“T.O. Listen. I can understand your—”

“How’d you find the place?”

“A friend in Malta sent me.”