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“You think the White Lights did the ritual to grab Death and stick him in a body. Why? What do they get out of it?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” says Julie. “Edison Elijah Mc
Carthy spent his life studying the supernatural and higher states of consciousness. If we could find him, we’d know.”
I go over to the entrance, take out a cigarette, and light it. No one objects this time.
“He’d be an old man by now.”
“Yes,” Julie says. “An old man with a powerful and ruthless organization behind him.”
“A bunch of assholes, if you ask me,” says Candy. “We shouldn’t have let that bunch on Wonderland get away.”
She’s right. And if I’d had my gun the other night, we would have had them then too.
“We’ll get ’em next time, cowgirl.”
Vincent looks around.
“If we found the right person and brought them here, could they put me back where I belong?”
“Probably,” I say. “The trick is finding the right one. My money is still on Tamerlan.”
Julie looks at me.
“I’m not saying he’s a goose-stepper. I’m saying he likes money. He’d do the ritual, take the cash, and never ask a single question.”
“Has Brigitte reported anything yet?” says Candy.
“We’re meeting tomorrow,” Julie says. “I’ll know more then.”
“Can we come along?” says Candy.
“I was going to suggest it.”
“You’ll see,” I say.
“I prefer not to jump to conclusions,” says Julie.
Over the stink of the Malediction, I smell something else. Something sweeter. I drop the smoke and crush it out with my boot. Step to the side of the door. A few seconds later, a kid wanders in smoking a blunt the size of a chimichanga.
He has long, dirty blond hair halfway down his back. He’s wearing battered boots, a thrift-store leather jacket covered in patches for different metal bands, and a Pantera T-shirt.
He’s staring at his feet on the way in and doesn’t spot Candy and Julie until he stops to knock some ash off his joint. He steps back when he sees them, then pulls his shit together.
“How’s it hanging, ladies?”
Then he sees Vincent.
The kid yells “Fuck!” and bolts for the door. I step in his way with the Colt in my hand. He pulls up short and puts his hands over his head. Looks back over his shoulder.
He’s about twenty. His red eyes are not those of an Einstein. He has a scraggly mustache and a faint scattering of acne scars on one cheek. He looks from me to Vincent and back again.
“Okay, Megadeth, tell me what you see.”
“That guy over there,” he whispers like no one else can hear.
I take a step toward the kid.
