GODWALKER Read online

  Did this town have a bad part? Somewhere she could go and hide, steal a car, get away… but where would she go? Shit, if TNI wanted her dead they’d just sic the FBI on her. Or one of Alex Abel’s witch doctors would kill her with a voodoo doll from three states away. She could try to find some other occult gang to bang with, but none of them had the kind of cash Abel did—the kind of cash she’d need to hide from a couple murder raps on top of espionage.

  She heard the squeal of tires and saw a blazer come around the corner, lights on but no sirens. With no hesitation the gun swung up and a fat jet of flame shot from the barrel. The truck—a Sheriff’s Department vehicle—swung right, went through some bare shrubs and crashed into the corner of a brick house.

  Four shots left. Jolene ran.

  * * *

  Leslie was sitting in the diner when Joe and Luther came in. The conversation was rather awkward at first, but the three men ate lunch together.

  * * *

  “My God,” Roberta said, looking in the back of the van. “Who were these people? Terrorists?”

  There were two pistol-grip shotguns. There was an M-16, fully automatic. A couple different sniper rifles. When she got there, Phil had counted an even dozen pistols—five silenced ones of the type that had taken Ralph Kimble’s life. Two small semi-automatics, easy to conceal. Bigger ones with more capacity. Fully automatic machine pistols. Boxes and boxes of bullets.

  “They’re mostly nine milllimeter,” Phil said, “But it goes up to fifty caliber. They’ve got safety slugs, armor piercing, subsonic sniper bullets. Enough for an army.”

  There were optic scopes. Light intensifier goggles. Infrared scanners.

  “What’s that thing?”

  “I think it’s a parabolic microphone. I don’t know what these gadgets are. Phone taps, you think?”

  Roberta crawled into the van, latex gloves in place. The walls of the van were covered with metal drawers, the type craftsmen use to carry their tools.

  She opened one at random. Inside was a bulletproof vest and a box of paper facemasks.

  “What is this stuff for?”

  “I don’t know,” Phil said, “But I think we owe Joe Kimble a great big apology.”

  * * *

  While the deputies were circling their quarry, Andy Brault sat back and thought. Clearly, this woman they were chasing wasn’t from around here. So she’d probably want to get away on the interstate. For that she’d need a car. With a gun she could carjack someone, but that would be hard to pull off in broad daylight. No, she’d want a car that wouldn’t be missed. But the car lots were on the other side of town—it’d take her forever to get there on foot, if she even knew where they were.

  But the truck stop, now. You could easily see the sign for that from the Sleepy Teepee. And hitching a ride on a truck would get her through the roadblocks, too.

  Andy was calling it in and turning a corner towards the truck stop when she crawled out of a culvert pipe right in front of him.

  “That’s her!” he shouted. He was in his own car, in plainclothes—he’d been scheduled to watch the Mundys that afternoon—and she was right up by the side of the road, panting, hands on her knees, when she turned and saw him. He was pulling over when she turned and dove back into the culvert.

  “Police! Come out of there!” he shouted, but he wasn’t going to stand in front of the pipe. No, he was climbing up above it, on the mound of dirt through which the pipe ran, so that he could see both sides. He wished he had his uniform on, had his radio so he could call in her position. But he had his gun in hand, ready to shoot if she made a break for it.

  He waited.

  “You can’t win,” he bellowed, wondering if she could even hear him in there. “Throw out your weapon!”

  He saw a rustling in the brush on the right side of the pipe. He peered closer, but saw from the corner of his eye when she ran out the left side. (Later, they found out she’d tied a string to the undergrowth and played it out.) He turned, raised his gun, shouted at her. She’d run behind his car for cover. She fired and missed as he dove for the ground, getting his legs behind the berm of earth. He fired and hit his own car, and then she turned and ran.

  The Desert Eagle is an enormous gun, and it makes a very loud bang, which was probably why Jolene did not hear the car coming. When she saw it, it was too late. She didn’t hear the squeal of tires or the horn, but she smelled the burning rubber and felt the impact on her hip. She fell onto the hard concrete and the pistol spun out of her hand.

  * * *

  The Freak bit a nail. It was nervous. That psycho gun nut bitch was out there still, but what really scared it was what it had felt. Someone had managed to score the Big Mojo, and while the Freak was tough, it had no delusions about being able to survive if one of those was aimed its way. It thought about cutting itself some more, but that was a delicate balance. Harming itself would give it the power to protect itself, but it had known too many flesh mages who’d gone overboard, who’d weakened themselves so much powering up that they’d died of blood loss halfway through a fight. The Freak could cheat—its position as godwalker gave it access to some free juice every day, but it had already spent it on its brief time of bullet resistance. The bullets—two of which had gone through its heart—had done only mild injury, thanks to the power of the Still Pond spell. But its chest was sore and bruised, its arm was stiff, it still hurt every time it walked.

  Did it dare reach for more power? Did it dare not?

  It looked into its lap at the Hotchkiss Compass. It was moving.

  The Freak took a deep breath and made up its mind. Best to just find Kimble and be done with it.

  It put its car in gear.

  * * *

  Jolene didn’t pass out, but she pretended. She lay on the pavement with her eyes almost completely closed as the cop came up, gun in hand, and called in for backup and an ambulance.

  The deputies arrived first, and she got chills when she heard them talking about her. She’d shot one of their own, made him crash his truck, and they personally hoped she wouldn’t survive the ambulance trip.

  When the paramedics arrived they looked her over, and she thought about trying to take one hostage, but without a gun or knife or other credible threat she didn’t have a chance, not against three armed and jittery cops looking for a reason to kill her. She waited, thinking about the punishment for treason.

  The paramedics said there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. They shone a light in her eyes and said she probably had a minor concussion.

  The deputies tried to get around the EMTs to frisk her, and they took her lighter. Too bad. The damn thing had a one-shot flame thrower built into it. Then they handcuffed her—paranoid bastards. They put her on a gurney, strapped her in and lifted her into the ambulance.

  If Jolene had thought God would listen, she would have prayed for one of the cops to get in the ambulance with her. As it happened, the plainclothesman did.

  “So what did this woman do, anyhow?”

  “Probably killed Ralph Mundy,” the plainclothesman said, sounding shaken. Jolene fluttered her eyes a little, looking to see where the two technicians were, and the cop. He looked like an okay guy. A shame, really.

  They’d put a blanket on her, under the straps. Standard operating procedure, in case of shock. That was good. They’d be less likely to notice her slipping a hand into the top of her jeans. But to make sure, she started muttering.

  “Hey, I think she’s coming around,” one of the medics said, leaning over her. Through barely open eyes she could see him only as a blur with a shiny stethoscope, but that was good, now he was shielding her from the cop.

  Safety-pinned to the top of her panties was a handcuff key. She always kept a couple hidden on her—a remnant of her GRU training. Many law enforcement cuffs in the U.S. use the same key. She would have been out of luck if this department had started using the disposable plastic ones, but they hadn’t. Under the blanket, she unlocked the cuff on her right
wrist and, quietly as she could, put it on her left.

  “…hit assignment…” she muttered. “…Kimble…fuckin’…”

  “What’s she saying?” The plainclothesman leaned in, and the EMT moved to make room. Jolene wormed her hand out from under the strap and moved it toward the edge of the blanket.

  “…money…” she whispered. “The money… from… bastard…”

  He took the bait and leaned closer still, close enough for her hand to snake up into his jacket, slip around the butt of his gun and then she screamed at the top of her lungs, screamed so he would jerk back, wouldn’t hear the snap of his holster, wouldn’t feel the tug as the gun came free. He jerked back as she flicked the safety and pulled back the hammer, it was a revolver, and she shot Andy Brault in the chest with his own gun.

  One of the medics screamed too, and Jolene pointed the smoking pistol straight down between her feet. “I’ll shoot the driver! Get back! I’ll do it! Back up or I shoot the fuckin’ driver!” She cocked the gun again.

  They backed up.

  “You, woman. Undo these straps. Driver! If I hear you get on that radio, I’ll hole you, we’ll crash and we’ll all die. I got nothing to lose, nothing!”

  Gingerly, the female EMT undid her straps. Jolene sat up. “Thanks,” she said, getting off the gurney. “How long until we’re at the hospital?”

  “Another five minutes…”

  “You,” Jolene said, gesturing at the male EMT. “On the cart. You on top of him,” she said to the woman. “You slow down,” she ordered the driver “And keep your hands where I can see ‘em, on the fuckin’ wheel.”

  “Okay, everything’s cool,” he said.

  “Shut up, too.”

  “Okay.”

  When the woman had mounted the man, Jolene pressed the gun to the back of her head, looking out the back of the ambulance. The windows were good and high: The two deputies following probably couldn’t see what was going on. She strapped the two technicians to the gurney.

  “Where’s your window-breaking tool?” she asked. The man told her, and she took it off his belt.

  Jolene squatted down and grabbed Andy Brault’s body by the collar. She noticed that his eyes were still open: She must have got the shot right through his heart. Good.

  “Okay driver. When I tell you, slam on the brakes.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t argue, dammit!”

  “Okay,” again very softly.

  Neither of the EMTs was bawling. Jolene was impressed and decided not to kill them if she could avoid it. She propped Brault’s corpse by the back door and pulled the handles, gently, not all the way open but just on the verge. Then she braced herself and told the driver “Now.”

  He slammed on the brakes. The deputy cruiser behind him slammed its brakes on too, but not quite fast enough. It rear-ended the ambulance and its back door swung open, spilling the dead policeman onto their car as both airbags deployed.

  The two deputies looked up through airbag smoke to see a dead man on their hood. The driver didn’t even notice Jolene leaping out of the ambulance, didn’t see her until she was beside him, smashing open the window. He didn’t even try to draw. The deputy in the passenger seat did reach for his gun, but was too distracted by the spray of blood and bone from the driver, and then it was his turn to die.

  * * *

  “I just wish this shit was all over with,” Joe said. Luther nodded. “I mean, okay, I’m not averse to a little excitement. It’s not like I’m scared, or anything. I mean, I was going to be a soldier. But shit, if all this crap was gonna happen, I kind of wish it was over something that made sense.”

  “You know, you don’t have to do this right now,” Luther said.

  They were standing outside Geloff’s Funeral Home.

  “Aw, I don’t think it’s going to get any easier if I wait.”

  “Afterwards, maybe we can go to that Tiki place and get beers,” Leslie said.

  “Sounds good,” Joe replied.

  “Well, I’ll be on duty, but I suppose I can watch,” Luther said glumly. The radio on his shoulder crackled.

  Luther frowned and asked the staticky broadcast to repeat itself.

  The unit hissed again and then a voice asked “What’s your twenty?”

  “I’m at Geloff’s Funeral Home with Kimble,” Luther replied.

  “And how do I get there, exactly?”

  Luther rolled his eyes and muttered something about county men. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m, uh, by the hospital. Just dropped off the suspect.”

  “Okay, you’re not far at all,” Luther said. “Who am I talking to, anyhow?”

  In the squad car, Jolene looked at the nametag of her headless passenger. “Deputy Altmeyer,” she said.

  One mile away, a Lexus made a right hand turn towards the funeral home.

  Behind it, on a small residential side street, Kate was already parking Fred Mundy’s rented Nissan.

  * * *

  Joe was in Mel Geloff’s office, leaving Luther and Leslie sitting out in the front parlor. Luther was giving Leslie suspicious looks.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You’re Ralph and Lisa Kimble’s son?”

  “By blood, yes.”

  “And Joe’s parents are the Mundys, those two we arrested?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Luther squinted.

  “Wow, you sure look like Joe’s mom,” he said, shaking his head.

  Leslie looked away, toying with a small engraved ashtray on an end table. “You think so?”

  “I guess. It’s that upper lip.”

  “Was she nice?”

  “Yeah,” Luther said. “Joe’s mom was a real nice lady. Shame she had to go out like that. Any time me and Joe were over there, you know, playin’, she was always in and out with the Hi-C and crackers with cheese. She’d melt the cheese in the microwave.” He shrugged. “She was there just enough, but not too much, you know? Enough that you weren’t ignored.”

  “But not so much that you felt spied on?” Leslie said.

  “Something like that.”

  “My parents watched me all the time,” Leslie said. “At least, before the divorce.”

  “My folks were kind of that way too,” Luther said.

  Leslie burped and put a hand to his chest.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had those green peppers at lunch. You know where there’s a bathroom?”

  “Back through there, I think,” Luther said, gesturing towards a door on the right.

  Seconds after Luther heard Leslie enter the toilet, the front door crashed open and a woman with a shotgun in her hands entered. Her jeans, her face, the bandage on her wrist and her Chicago Bulls sweatshirt were all splashed with dirt and blood. In fact, the trails left by the spattered gore indicated that she’d been hit by more than one spray of it.

  Luther went cold all over, grabbed for his gun as he stumbled to his feet. The shotgun pointed his way and he felt his muscles strain as he lunged aside, jerking the slide to chamber a round.

  “Where’s Kimble?” she howled as she fired, hair floating wildly, eyes mad. Luther’s chair sprouted splinters and tufts of stuffing. The rookie cop felt his whole left side start to burn and ache and he didn’t look, didn’t see how bad it was. He just aimed at her center of mass with a Glock nine millimeter he’d bought from Carla Cates at the Wal-Mart, aimed for her heart and fired and hit her in her right side. She spun from the impact and he fired again, missing this time. He aimed as she dove forward. She did a perfect roll, pumping the gun in the middle and coming up in a crouch behind an ornate desk. He fired and the desk splintered but he didn’t think he hit her, and she was aiming over the top of the desk when a third person ran into the room through the front door.

  Though Luther and Jolene didn’t know it, the third person—a slender man with aquiline features and blue eyes—was the Freak, who had seen Jolene go in, had heard shots, and had decided to
get involved before things could get any more chaotic.

  Jolene turned and fired the shotgun, but the Freak’s body was like a still pond and the pellets simply splashed through organs and bones that reformed after impact. Tiny pinpricks dotted the Freak’s shirt but it had a good running start and had its hands on the gun barrel before Jolene could shoot again. Luther aimed, but didn’t dare fire for fear of hitting this unknown man.

  The Freak plowed into Jolene and the two of them stumbled backwards through a door on the left, grappling for the shotgun as they staggered.

  Luther reached for his microphone and touched only shattered plastic and something sticky and warm. He made the mistake of looking down and saw that his body from the left shoulder down to the left hip was all blood. He started to hyperventilate but wouldn’t let himself freak out, wouldn’t disgrace himself, he pushed back against the wall and got to his feet, stumbling towards the phone on the desk and the door the two had gone through.

  He made it three steps before he collapsed.

  Jolene and the Freak had stumbled into the room where coffins were displayed, and they careened between them, all four hands on the shotgun, wrenching it this way and that. The Freak was definitely stronger, but Jolene had better balance and better training and was, moreover, quite out of her mind with rage. She sensed, somehow, that this was the same entity that she had twice failed to shoot dead, and even through her haze of conflicting urges—the urge to escape, the urge to get revenge on TNI—she had the urge to kill this fucking monster, this goddamn godwalker, this Kimble.

  When the Freak jerked the gun back and to the side, Jolene unexpectedly lunged into its tug, getting a leg in to knock it down. The Freak fell but clung to the gun, tucking its head (fleetingly aware of the danger of concussion) and pulling Jolene forward. The Freak’s injured arm slipped and Jolene wrenched the gun free, but was so far off balance that the unexpected release brought the side of the barrel up into her own face. She took two steps back and sat on her ass, hard. She was scrambling to her feet but the Freak was already up, and Jolene was trying to get her finger in the trigger guard when it shoved a coffin off a display cart and tumbled it onto her. She abandoned the shotgun and desperately crabwalked backwards, trying to get her feet beneath her and a dead cop’s pistol out of her waistband as the Freak sent the cart flying at her. Jolene dodged the cart but then the Freak was on her, one hand on her wrist yanking her close, the other going under her opposite armpit. She tried to free her hand and the Freak let it go, grabbing under her ass and lifting her by her left side and her right thigh. It jerked her up like a sack of flour, grunting, and flung her into a coffin on display. The coffin crashed to the floor, landing on its hinge side and closing halfway. She’d lost the gun somewhere. She put her hands on the edges of the casket to pull herself out, but the Freak lunged into the box’s base and slammed it shut on her hands. Jolene felt bones break.