Out of Control (10 page)

The needle struck true, snake-quick, accompanied by a shockwave of Faris's vital energy. Then the second needle, slightly lower. Then the third. The man went rigid, and then crumpled to the floor.

Faris knelt next to him, concentrated his qi one last time, and stabbed his two fingers into the trauma point over the man's liver.

He plucked the needles out and tucked them back into his wristband, and peeked beneath the man's eyelids. Perfect. He was the best of the Order of the Snake. None of the other trainees had acquired Faris's intuitive understanding of death strikes, and with each kill, his precision increased. He leaned over the counter and rifled through the receipts until he found the one that documented Margaret's sale. He took it, along with the carbon, tucking them into his pocket, and waited until the man's eyelids fluttered open. “Huh? Whah?” the man said.

“You blacked out.” Faris made his voice solicitous. “When you reached up for the guitar. Can I get you something? Or call someone?”

“Nah.” The pawnbroker looked dazed. “I'll be OK, I guess. Fuckin' weird.”

“It happens,” Faris soothed. “Probably it's nothing. You should see your physician, though. You might have low blood pressure. You should have a candy bar, or a cup of coffee, maybe.”

The man allowed Faris to help him into a sitting position. “Thanks, man. Sorry if I freaked you out. Man, I feel like shit.”

“No problem at all,” Faris assured him. “Really, I wouldn't mind running you over to the emergency room.”

“Hell, no.” The man winced, rubbing the heel of his hand over one of the spots that Faris had struck with the needles. “I stay away from those places. You still want that guitar?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Don't trouble yourself,” Faris said. “I'll just take the pendant.” He pulled six hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and laid them on the counter, glad that he had thought to paint the transparent layer of liquid latex over his fingertips today.

The man struggled up onto his knees, and then thudded heavily back onto his hind end. “Gotta do up a receipt for you,” he muttered.

“Never mind the receipt,” Faris said. “I don't need one. Stay where you are for a few minutes. Head down, between your knees.”

The man's bleared, confused eyes flickered up to Faris's. He looked lost. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I will.”

“Maybe you should close up shop for a while,” Faris suggested. “Go lie down someplace.”

“Yeah,” the man replied dully. “That might be good.”

The pawnbroker did not deserve Faris's respect, but death had claimed him, and Faris found himself lingering by the door, gazing down at the soon-to-be-dead man with a feeling almost like tenderness.

“Goodbye,” Faris said gently. “Take care.”

He stepped out into the sunshine. The process was irreversible. The man's kidneys and liver would begin to shut down soon. Within twelve hours, he would die. Painfully, bleeding from every orifice.

The door tinkled gently as he closed it behind him. He dropped the pendant into his pocket. All that was left was to eliminate that animal that Margaret kept as a pet, after which it would be time to turn his attention to Joseph Pantini. Ah, the things a man did for love.

The random thought struck him as funny. He sauntered down the sidewalk towards his car, whistling and smiling at everyone he passed.

“A
nimal blood? You're sure about that?” Davy said.

“Yeah,” Monique said. “I haven't distinguished which animal yet. That'll take more tests, and I was too swamped today.”

“Huh. Interesting,” Davy said slowly. “How much do I owe—”

“Don't even,” Monique scoffed. “It was no biggie. Want to catch me up with what you've been doing lately over dinner?”

Davy hesitated. “Uh, actually…”

“Say no more.” Monique's voice was regretful, but good-natured. “Can't blame a woman for trying.”

“Thanks for rushing this for me,” Davy said. “You're really—”

“A pal. I know. Have fun tonight, whatever you're doing. Bye.”

Davy clicked the cell phone off and eased into his parking place behind the dojo, thinking about Monique with a combination of affection and regret. She was an ex-client of his, a technician at a crime lab, whose philandering husband had absconded with his mistress and all their assets, leaving her with two little kids, a rented apartment and fifty thousand dollars in debt. Davy had tracked the selfish asshole down and made him pay through the nose. One of the few times that detective work had given him pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

Maybe he should have become a cop, like Connor. Problem was, he was bad at dealing with rules, bureaucracy, politics, power games. Connor had more patience for that crap than he did. Davy had never been much of a team player. A result of his weird upbringing.

Monique was an attractive woman. He'd thought about getting involved with her, and there the matter rested. Thinking. Whereas with Margot, he couldn't string two lucid thoughts together. He was running on mindless impulse. Like driving with his eyes shut, pedal to the floor.

He peered through the door of the dojo. Sean's raucous kickboxing class was in full swing. It sounded more like a street brawl or a wild party than a martial arts class. He kept going, and pushed open the door to the Women's Wellness Center next door.

The place jarred him with its femininity. Pastel colors, plants, the fruit 'n veggie juice bar, perfumes from the aromatherapy shelves wafting over from the New Age boutique.

His tenant, Tilda, who ran the place, sashayed around the bar, a grin flashing in her dusky face. She gave him a smacking kiss. “I'm paid up on my rent, honey, so to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Davy eyed Tilda's moist fuchsia lipstick and wondered if she'd left a kiss mark on his jaw. “Just wondering if Margot was around.”

Tilda's liquid brown eyes widened in amused speculation. “Yes, actually. Just finishing up Ifs, Abs and Butts.”

“No kidding?” He started to grin.

“Great title, eh? Came up with it myself. After that she's got the evening step class to do, and then she's done. I think she's already doing the cool-down. She'll be out in a minute. Why don't you have a seat at the bar and let me juice you the wheat grass, beet and lemon cocktail? It's a bomb. Keep you going like the Energizer Bunny.”

“No, thanks,” Davy said hastily. “I'm fine. I'll just wait.”

The music faded away moments later, and a stream of damp, exhausted looking women began to trickle out. Margot was the last of them, decked out in her purple outfit that fit her gorgeous body like a second skin. It clashed wildly with green and orange striped tights.

She caught sight of him, and froze in place, eyes wide.

His gut clenched to think that his attentions might be so unwelcome as to seem creepy. He tried a non-threatening smile, and tried not to stare at the sinuous way she walked towards him.

“Hey, there,” she said. “What's up?”

“Uh…” His mind went embarrassingly blank for a second before he fished the salient item back to the surface. “I got preliminary results back from the lab. It's animal blood.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Huh. Weird. I'm sorry for the animal, but thank God it wasn't…well. You know.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The cleaning service should have been by today, too. They told me they'd take care of it.”

“Thanks,” she said again. “You shouldn't have done it. I told you not to. But you were a sweetheart. That was really kind of you.”

Davy's eyes flicked to Tilda, who was listening avidly to every word. “I was wondering if you would have dinner with me,” he said. “I've got steaks marinating at home. Or we could call out for Chinese, or Indian, or anything you felt like. We need to talk about how to proceed.”

Her brow lifted. “Oh? Are we proceeding? I didn't know that.”

Her cool tone grated on him. “The situation is unacceptable.”

Margot's mouth tightened. “You're not the one who has to accept it. Look here, McCloud—I mean, Davy,” she corrected. “I appreciate your concern, but I got doused with blood this morning and fired from my restaurant job this afternoon. I'm really on edge, to put it mildly. So don't even think about throwing your weight around with me.”

Tilda leaned over the bar. “Don't be an idiot,” she hissed. “He offers to help, and you give him attitude? Get a clue, girlfriend!”

Margot did not drop her eyes from Davy's face. “Til, you're a fabulous woman, but this is complicated. So please butt out.”

Davy took a deep, calming breath and called on all of his patience. “Would you step outside with me for a minute?”

Her eyes flicked over to Tilda. “I have to teach the—”

“The step class, I know. It'll just take a second. Please, Margot.”

She nodded. He followed her out of the gym to the breezeway outside. She bit her lip, clearly nervous. “I don't have a lot of time.”

“Let's try this again,” he persisted grimly. “Let's get back to the burning issue of steaks, Chinese, Indian, Thai. What's your preference?”

“But you fed me dinner last night,” she protested.

“You shouldn't make such a big deal of it,” he said. “Especially since it's just a manipulative ploy. I'm softening you up for a favor.”

Her eyes widened. Tension suddenly charged the air.

“Don't be so suspicious,” he hastened to say. “It's an innocent, G-rated favor.”

Her eyes rolled. “There's nothing innocent or G-rated about anything you say or do, Davy McCloud.”

“I need a date for my brother's wedding tomorrow,” he announced.

Her jaw dropped. She was speechless for several moments. She lifted her hands to cover the flush on her cheeks. Her lashes swept down to shield her eyes. “You want me? For something like that?”

“I know weddings can be boring, but this one should be relatively entertaining,” he hurried on. “Sean alone is a one-man floor show. And Connor wants to have a really wild party. So, uh…”

“A family event?” Her voice was soft with disbelief. “Me?”

“It's not that big of a deal,” he protested. “It's a nice place. The Endicott Falls Resort. You'd just parade around with me, looking good. We'd mingle, create a buzz of gossip that'll keep my brother's new mother-in-law from trying to fix me up, which I loathe. You may have to dance with me a couple of times. If you like dancing, that is.”

“I love dancing,” she whispered.

“Great. Excellent news,” he said hastily. “So, will you go, then?”

He realized, alarmed, that her eyes were bright with tears. “You're doing this because you want to keep an eye on me, right?” she asked.

“That's just a side benefit,” he protested. “I really do need a date. Sean's going to be no help at all. He'll be at the bottom of a writhing heap of bridesmaids as soon as things get going. Please, Margot.” He pulled her hand to his face and pressed an impulsive kiss onto her palm. “Don't make me face this alone.”

“That's so incredibly sweet.” Her voice sounded as if she was talking to herself. “Thank you, Davy.”

The sad, faraway note to her voice made him uneasy. “So?” he prodded. “You'll go? Is it a deal?”

She shook her head. “I'm afraid not. I can't—”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “God, you're difficult. I can't leave Mikey, for one thing.”

“Bring him,” he suggested rashly.

“To a wedding? At a posh resort?” She looked doubtful. “Get out.”

“They must have rooms where you can keep pets.” He had no clue if such a room was available, but he was up to the kind of hard-core intimidation it might take to make one become available.

Margot shook her head. Another thought occurred to him. “It's a formal afternoon wedding in the rose garden. I'm one of the best men, so I'm stuck wearing a goddamn tux. If you need to buy a dress—”

“Hold it right there, before you say something we'll both regret,” Margot's voice was sharp.

He swallowed back the rest of it. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No. I'm the one who's sorry. Thanks for asking me. I would love to go to a big party someplace beautiful where people are celebrating something happy. I really, really wish I could go, Davy, but I can't.” She held her hand up and frowned as he opened his mouth. “Don't ask me why. You don't have the right to demand explanations from me.”

He wrestled down a red fog of frustrated anger. “Will you at least have dinner with me tonight?” He bit each word out with steely calm.

She threw up her hands. “Davy, please. Let it go. I still have my class to teach, and then I have to pick up Mikey.”

“I already bought a dog dish and can of food for him. Mikey's own brand. Mikey's invited to this party. It's a given. No-brainer.”

Margot's mouth dangled open for a moment, at a total loss. She gazed at him for a long moment and started to smile, helplessly.

She reached up and rubbed at his cheek with her hand. “You underhanded, manipulative son-of-a-bitch. You know, it's hard to take a guy seriously when he has a big fat lipstick mark on his face.”

His face heated up. He scrubbed the spot with his own knuckles. “Better?” he demanded grimly. “Can you take me seriously now?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “And yes, steaks would be great.”

 

As a favor to Margot, Faris had wanted to dispose of her dog and its remains before he made his move on her tonight. He'd gone so far as to consider letting her keep the dog, to soften the rough transition. Upon more reflection, he had decided that such a feeble compromise was no real favor to her. A radical break with everything familiar would be better, in the long run. He could not be soft.

Softness had no place in the world she would soon inhabit.

Once she'd been properly broken in, he would reward her with a new dog. A quality, purebred animal worthy of her beauty.

He circled the block of the kennel where she boarded the dog and began spiraling out in wider circles. The right person to run this errand would present himself or herself soon. He drove past a sidewalk full of young slackers in black leather sprawled on the sidewalks, and turned the corner to circle around and take another look. He couldn't be seen by the kennel personnel, but one of these disposable persons could.

He knew her the second he saw her. A short girl with stringy, white blond curls, facial piercing, eyes shadowed with makeup. Still pretty, not yet strayed so far from her affluent suburban upbringing as to be useless. He slowed the car and stared at her until she looked up and took notice. She scowled and gave him the finger.

She had the same faint death's-head mask superimposed upon her pale face that he had seen on Joe Pantani. She was the one.

He rolled the window down, and regarded her with his most unthreatening smile. He was lucky in his pleasantly handsome, mild face. He hid his powerful, muscular body under loose clothes so as not to draw attention to himself. Marcus had told him once that from the neck up, he looked like an accountant. He often wore wire-rimmed glasses to underscore the effect, even though his vision was perfect.

“Excuse me, miss?” he called out.

She got up and swaggered towards him. “Whaddaya want?”

“I have a job for you, if you want it.”

She shrank back with an expression of loathing. “I don't do that shit for money, man. Stay away from me. Pig.”

“Oh no. I don't want sex,” he assured her. “I just want you to run a harmless errand for me. It's not dangerous, not difficult, not illegal. It'll take you five minutes at the most.”

Her face was twisted with a fierce scowl. “Why should I?”

Faris wondered idly if that row of piercings in her eyebrow was painful when she frowned like that. He fished around in his pocket until he found the baggie full of Ecstasy that Marcus had supplied him with.

He held it up. The girl's eyes dilated. “I'm not sure what your personal preferences are, but these are—”