Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (37 page)

The room below was awash in candlelight, dozens of them lining a long shelf and a small, squat table. There were more gypsy wheels spray-painted on the wall, the floor littered with stacks of newspaper and phone books and street maps, some new, some decades old.

And there, seated on an old army cot, a swatch of bloody bandages on his left shoulder, was Mikola. He held a blood-caked knife in his hand, precariously close to a crying Evan Fairweather, who sat at his feet on the cement floor.

Evan started to rise at the sight of Anna, but Mikola grabbed his collar, pulling him back.

“Do not move, boy.”

The sobs grew louder.

Mikola looked at Anna. “He cries too much, this one. A small poke and he cries like an infant. Let him spend just one day in my skin and then he will find something to cry about.” His gaze snapped to Evan. “Shut up, boy, or I cut your throat.”

Evan turned sharply, looking at him, and abruptly stopped crying.

Anna kept her Glock up, pointing it at Mikola. “Let him go.”

“Of course,” Mikola said, calmer now. “Once you have given me what I seek.” He paused. “The boy is important to you, yes?”

“Let him go, goddamn it.”

Mikola shook his head. “Such language, Chavi. I see you have been corrupted by the
gadje
.”

“I swear to God, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”

Mikola swiped the knife through the air. “And if you do, the boy will die. Is that what you want?”

Anna said nothing.

“You have only you and your friends to blame for this. It would not be necessary if the one on the stairs had not put this bullet in me. But no matter. I will get what I seek, yes?”

Again, Anna said nothing, her mind in turmoil, trying to figure a way out of this without getting Evan hurt.

“My terms are simple,” Mikola said. “You for the boy.”

Anna wanted so badly to pull the trigger. A bullet straight to the neck would sever his spine, destroy his motor senses, and render him unable to use the knife. But what if she missed?

Evan would die.

“Do not disappoint me, Chavi. I’ve traveled far for this.”

“Through the mirrors,” Anna said.

“Yes, through the mirrors. A simple skill that so many have chosen to ignore. Even you.”

“Me?”

“You are the greatest
chovihani
the Zala family has ever seen, yet your fear of the black arts is amusing. What is the harm in simply looking into the mirrors and asking that they take you where you wish to go? Look what it has done for me.”

“Allowed you to kill a bunch of innocent people. Let’s all celebrate.”

“You are mistaken if you think I enjoy the killing. But to get what I seek, I will not hesitate to use this blade.”

“But for what?” Anna said. “All those people dead for a piece of my soul?”

“Not just a piece this time. This time, I become whole. I become you. The thing I worshiped for so many years. Look at me now. Look how much stronger, how much more beautiful I’ve become. You are the last spoke on the wheel, Chavi. The tattoo will be complete.”

“But to get it from me, to get this last piece of my soul, you have to kill me, right?”

“Yes.”

“And it has to be you. No one else.”

“Yes,” he said. “So put the gun down, and I will release the boy.”

For a long moment, Anna didn’t move.

Then she raised the gun higher. Put it to her temple.

Mikola’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

“My terms are simple,” Anna said. “Let the boy go, or I shoot myself.”

He scowled at her. “You are a madwoman!”

“What’s mine is mine, brother. It isn’t much, but it’ll be lost to you forever if you don’t let him go.” She looked at Evan. “It’s okay. He won’t hurt you. Go upstairs.”

But Evan didn’t budge. Just stared at her, his body shaking.

“Go, Evan. Now!”

The boy finally got to his feet, Mikola making no move to stop him. But as Evan started toward the stairs, Anna made the mistake of following him with her gaze, and before she caught herself—

—Mikola sprang from the cot, diving into her, slamming her to the floor.

The impact knocked the wind out of her and the Glock went flying, Mikola straddling her as he brought the knife up, ready to plunge it into her chest—

—but as his hand came down, Anna twisted beneath him and the knife sank into her shoulder instead.

Hot white pain shot through her, more pain than she could ever remember feeling, as—

—Mikola pulled the knife free, bringing it up again, and—

—Anna dug frantically into her back pocket, trying to grab hold of the backup weapon she’d bought.

Then she had it and brought her hand up, jabbing the business end of a stun gun into Mikola’s side, sending a hundred thousand volts of electricity through him.

He howled, rolling away from her, and she hit him again, then again—

“Run, Evan! Run!”

—and Evan didn’t need any more encouragement. He tore up the steps as Anna searched frantically for the Glock, wanting to get this over with once and for all. But she couldn’t find it. Not enough light.

But then she spotted the knife on the floor and dove for it—

—but just as the fingers of her free hand brushed the blade—

—Mikola grabbed the handle and brought the knife up, furiously swiping at her. The blade caught her cheek and she dropped the stun gun, reaching for her face, blood gushing between her fingers.

But Mikola was still trembling from the shock of the stun gun and dropped the knife before he could do any more damage.

Anna jumped to her feet and kicked at him, connecting with bone, then turned and ran for the stairs, her shoulder and cheek on fire, blood leaking from the wounds. She took the steps two at a time and saw Evan standing in the center of the mirror maze, staring at hundreds of his own reflection, not knowing where to go.

Anna grabbed hold of him and swept him up into her arms, heading for the maze as—

Mikola roared behind her, running up the steps, about to go into a diving tackle, when—

A shotgun blast rang out, shattering a mirror, shards flying and—

—Anna threw herself to the floor, covering Evan with her body, as—

Pope stepped through the hole he’d made and fired again, sending a charge straight into Mikola’s chest.

The gypsy flew backwards, tumbling down the hole, his greasy red baseball cap fluttering onto his lifeless body.

4
7

“
IT’S WRONG,”
McBride said. She seemed delirious. “It’s all wrong.”

It had taken two more shotgun blasts to get them out of the mirror maze quickly.

When they reached the lobby, Pope took Evan from McBride’s arms and set him down, then yanked his shirt off, bunched it up, and shoved it against her cheek, which was bleeding pretty badly.

The shoulder would have to wait.

“You weren’t supposed to kill him,” McBride said.

Pope tucked the 590 under his arm. “Give me your phone.”

When she didn’t respond, he reached into her pocket and pulled it out, dialing 911.

A moment later the operator came on the line. “We have a shooting death,” he said, “at the abandoned Big Mountain amusement park in Allenwood. And another person down with major injuries.”

“It was supposed to be me,” McBride said. “I was the one who was supposed to kill him.”

“We’re near the roller coaster, in front of the house of mirrors. Get an ambulance out here right away.”

He hung up, McBride still babbling. “You remember what Madam Zala told me? It isn’t over. His soul will move on to the next life.”

“Maybe she’s wrong.”

“No, no. He’s evil, Danny. This isn’t over. He’s still—”

Pope grabbed her shoulders. “I can’t worry about what might happen twenty years from now. He’s dead and you’re alive. That’s all that matters to me. You’re alive. And so is Evan.” He released her and took Evan’s hand. “Now let’s get out of here.”

They moved to the entranceway doors, and Pope pushed them wide, stepping into the sunlight, which seemed brighter than before. Then he turned, looking at McBride’s shoulder.

“It’s a clean puncture, not bleeding too bad. The ambulance should be here any minute.”

“I’m afraid that will be too late,” a voice said.

Pope turned sharply.

Standing in the shade of the roller coaster, his nose broken, a pistol in hand—

—was Arturo.

“I saw the phone on the ground and thought I had lost you,” he said. “But all good things come to those who wait.” He smiled. “Mr. Troy sends his regards.”

And as Pope reacted, fumbling for his shotgun, Arturo pointed the pistol at him and pulled the trigger.

A
NNA SAW THE
bullet hit in slow motion.

It tore into Pope’s chest, spinning him sideways. Blood erupted and he went down hard as—

—the stranger shifted his gaze to Anna and—

—she dove toward Evan, knocking him aside, reaching for the Mossberg 590, which hadn’t yet hit the ground, as—

—the stranger squeezed the trigger, the bullet blowing past Anna and Evan, hitting the pavement behind them.

Anna’s hands grabbed the 590, which wasn’t a light and easy weapon to handle, by any means, as—

—the stranger adjusted his angle and squeezed the trigger a third time, and—

—Anna rolled, narrowly avoiding the hit, then pumped the barrel and came up firing, knowing the Mossberg only held five rounds and that four had already been expended. If this shot didn’t connect, she was dead—and so was Evan.

The shotgun roared, bucking hard against Anna’s already-wounded shoulder, pain reverberating through her body as the charge flew, and she had no idea if she’d hit anything, until she was on the ground, and realized the stranger had stopped firing.

Fighting against her pain, she scrambled to her feet and saw him lying about five yards away.

Half of his face was missing.

Motherfucker.

“Evan?” she shouted, and the boy started to cry again.

Anna turned and saw him sitting on the ground nearby, banged up, but still in one piece.

Then there was a groan behind her and she spun around, moving to Pope, who lay on his back on the mottled pavement, his chest bloody, his breathing ragged and labored, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.

“I think I’m hit,” he said, and she fell to her knees beside him, grabbing his hand—

—Oh, god, oh, god—

—but there was nothing she could do for him, he’d be gone soon, and tears flooded her eyes as she looked down at him, not knowing what to say, wanting desperately to rewind the clock, to take it all back—

—and then his eyes shifted slightly, as if he’d seen something in some far-off place.

He said, “Ben?”

—then stopped breathing, stopped moving, all the gears grinding to an abrupt halt.

Anna just sat there, tears falling, not quite believing what had happened here, not wanting to let go. Evan was still crying, too, but she couldn’t find the strength to move, couldn’t go to him, as sirens wailed in the distance, signaling that help was on its way.

But what did it matter?

Pope was gone, Evan’s family wiped out, Susan in jail, little Jillian Carpenter taken long before her time, and all Anna could claim in return was a small scrap of her gypsy soul.

Red Cap had won. He may have been lying at the bottom of those steps, but he still had most of their soul and would carry it on to another life, another time.

And when he realized who he was and what he needed to do, it would start all over again. She would never be free.

Never.

But then it suddenly occurred to Anna.

Time.

What if she
could
rewind the clock?

What if she
could
take it all back?

What is the harm,
Mikola had said,
in simply looking into the mirrors and asking that they take you where you wish to go?
 

Just like Peabody and Sherman. Her own personal wayback machine.

Was it possible?

Could it be done?

She was, after all, Chavi Zala, the gypsy witch, one of the most powerful
chovihanis
the Zala family had ever seen.

All she had to do, Madam Zala had told her, was look beyond her reflection, and when she ceased to see herself, she’d see the world, all the way back to its beginning, and forward, to eternity.