Destroying Angel Page 10

  Before Tanner could say a thing, Max jammed the knife deep into Francie Miller’s throat. Blood gushed, Francie lurched violently backward as Max let go and retreated, leaving the knife in her throat. She hit the ground, her legs kicked, her body jerked spasmodically for several moments, and Tanner could see the blood running and spattering across the floor, the knife flipping free.

  Jesus.

  He was a dead man.

  He didn’t have much time. A minute, maybe two. He opened up and shut down, letting pictures and thoughts click through his mind. Knife on the floor. No. Legs and feet. Blood. The window. How high above the street? Didn’t matter. Max standing over the woman, watching the final spasms. Lower legs free enough?

  Only a foot from the window, it was low, wouldn’t take much. Try not to land headfirst on the street. Now or die, man. Go.

  Tanner leaned forward, lifting the chair from the floor. He dropped slightly, then lunged sideways at the window, closing his eyes. Glass shattered, hip hit the sill, he fell outward, through the glass, glass slicing skin, then out the window. He hit metal immediately, twisted, bumped, started down, then jolted to a stop. He opened his eyes.

  Tanner was three floors above the street, upside down. A leg of the chair was caught in the tangled remnants of a fire escape. He glanced at the shattered window just a few feet above him, waiting to see Max’s face. Jesus.

  He shook himself, rocked and jolted, side to side, up and down. Harder. The chair leg cracked, then finally broke, and he dropped.

  Tanner tried to twist himself as he fell, legs kicking. He hit the street hard on his side, a wall of pain jolting through him. A burst of silver glitter, then he couldn’t see anything at all for a few moments. The darkness cleared away, and he saw people standing over him. He wanted to pass out, but he was afraid to. If he passed out now, he would probably die; Max would find him and he would die. He didn’t know if he could even free himself from the rope and chair. The pain was a pounding vibration jamming through him, like bone boomers strapped all over his body. He wanted Rachel’s Dilaudid.

  Then Sookie’s face appeared above him, and she dropped to her knees. There was a man with her, a gaunt spikehead with clear, bright wide eyes. The spikes of twisted skin seemed to move across his forehead.

  “I told you to stay away from him,” Sookie said.

  Tanner tried to speak, but couldn’t get anything out.

  “We’ve got to get him the hell out of here now,” the spikehead said.

  “We’ll take care of you,” Sookie told him. “Don’t worry.”

  For some reason Tanner found her voice completely reassuring. When he felt their hands on him, he closed his eyes and let himself slip away.

  TWENTY

  SOOKIE LOOKED UP, saw Max’s face in the shattered window. Mirrorshades. Who knew what he was seeing?

  “Come on!” Mixer said.

  Sookie and Mixer grabbed Tanner’s arms and shoulders and lifted.

  “Don’t move him,” someone in the crowd said. “You know, in case of spinal—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Mixer said. Then, to Sookie, “Let’s move it.”

  They half carried, half dragged Tanner, pieces of rope and broken chair still hanging from him. Sookie watched his face, his closed eyes. It had to hurt.

  They pushed through the crowd, around a corner. Mixer let go, and Sookie fell with all the weight. Mixer jumped a pedal cart going by, jamming it to a stop, almost knocking the driver off.

  Sookie was back on her feet by the time Mixer got the cart backed up, and they loaded Tanner into the storage well. Sookie stayed with him while Mixer hung on behind the driver. “Go!” he yelled.

  The driver swore and pumped, and the cart moved slowly forward. Too slow, Sookie thought, looking back. She didn’t see Max or Uwe, but she was sure they were coming. Anyone else following? Hard to tell.

  The cart picked up speed. Mixer yelled in the driver’s ear, and the driver whacked Mixer on the side of the head. The driver was a stocky woman with short hair and a necklace tattooed around her neck. She kept calling Mixer names, and he kept shouting directions at her. Sookie couldn’t keep up with it all, but it seemed that the driver was following Mixer’s instructions, zigzagging from one street to another.

  They turned a corner, and Mixer had the driver stop. Mixer and Sookie pulled Tanner off the cart, dragging him against the wall. Mixer glared at the driver and pointed down the street. “Keep going, bitch!”

  The woman nodded. “You owe me for this, you goddamn spikehead. I know your face.” She pushed off, gaining speed more quickly now.

  Mixer unlocked a metal door, pushed it open, and they dragged Tanner through. Mixer jammed the door shut, cutting off all light.

  “All right,” Mixer said. “We’re safe for now. No way they’ll find us here.”

  “Where we going to take him?” Sookie asked. She couldn’t see Mixer in the dark, but she could smell him—something like sweat and sawdust. Tanner smelled like pain. She held on to one of his hands. “It’s a good thing we followed him,” she said.

  “I know a place.” Mixer laughed. “I know a lot of places.” He lit a cigarette, and the match light showed a small passage empty except for the three of them. Mixer blew out the match; his cigarette glowed. “Let me think a minute.” The glow moved back and forth in the darkness, as if he were shaking his head. “Every time you show up, Sookie, something like this happens.”

  “My life is too weird,” she said.

  Mixer laughed again. “Yeah, no shit. But wait’ll you grow up. It’s only going to get weirder.”

  “Great.” She sat on the floor beside Tanner and waited for Mixer to make a decision.

  TWENTY-ONE

  TANNER CAME TO in a narrow, windowless room. He lay on a cot, surrounded by concrete walls, a lamp at his head, a tiny fan whirring in the far corner. The door was closed, the air stifling despite the fan.

  He remembered waking several times, disoriented from dull pain and drugs. He remembered fluids trickled into his mouth; he remembered being walked down a hall to a toilet. Someone had been keeping him sedated. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Tanner sat up slowly, a little woozy but otherwise feeling all right. He was wearing a pair of light cotton pants, but nothing else. His left wrist was heavily taped and in the dim light from the lamp he could see dark, yellowing bruises on his arms and chest, particularly on his left side; also a number of cuts that seemed to be healing. Overall, though, he did not appear to be too badly hurt. Everything except his wrist moved freely and without much pain.

  There was a plastic pitcher of water next to the lamp, and Tanner, looking at it, realized how thirsty he was; his mouth was dry, yet gummy. He drank deeply from the pitcher, and the water went to his head, almost like alcohol. He had to lean back against the wall to keep from losing his balance. He drank some more, then set down the pitcher.

  He rose to his feet, took the five steps to the door, and tried the handle. Locked. Had Max got hold of him? Tanner did not think so. He thought he remembered seeing Sookie during his brief conscious periods, and the spikehead who had been with her. Also some other guy, a thin unshaven man, gaunt face bent over him. Who the hell was that?

  Tanner looked around the tiny room. Nothing but the cot, the lamp, the water, the fan. No clothes. No money, no credit chip. And no way out. He banged on the door a few times, but got no response. He would have to just sit and wait. That was all right. Waiting was bearable, it was something he had learned to do—wait without going crazy. He could do it again.

  He spent some time pacing the room, then did some stretching, working through the pain in his muscles. He sat on the cot, breathing heavily. The pacing had tired him, but the muscle pain felt good. He sat with his back against the cool concrete wall, waiting and thinking. He thought a lot about Francie Miller. He tried not to, but the images kept returning—Max driving the knife into her throat; blood; Francie arching violently, chair driven back and over; Franci
e jerking spasmodically on the floor; blood again; the knife flipping free; Max’s shaded eyes.

  When no one appeared after an hour or so, Tanner lay out on the cot and slept.

  O O O O

  He dreamed of Freeman again: the hot, dark hallway; the fat man with the smell of tuna; the gun at Freeman’s face, the explosion of blood and flesh and bone. This time, though, as Tanner ran down the hall, before the second gunshot, he tripped over Francie Miller’s body. He tumbled to the floor, somehow twisting around so his face was looking into hers, staring at the knife still embedded in her throat. Her eyes stared back at him.

  Then he awakened.

  A junkie stood over him, staring into Tanner’s face. Tanner could see needle marks in the guy’s neck. A gaunt, unshaven face, glittering eyes. The face he had seen before.

  “I’m your doctor,” the junkie said. He grinned, retreating a couple of steps.

  Tanner lay without moving for a minute, watching the junkie, who continued to grin. Tanner slowly sat up, saw a medical kit on the floor beside the cot, and realized the junkie was serious.

  “I’m a hell of a doctor when I’m not strung out or just shot,” the junkie said. He shrugged. “I fixed you up, and you’re going to be fine.” Another shrug, then he put out his hand. “My name’s Leo.”

  Tanner did not shake Leo’s hand. “Why have you been sedating me?” he asked.

  Leo dropped his hand. “To keep you quiet. This room’s safe enough, but...” He shrugged again. “Didn’t want you crying out.”

  “Why would I cry out?”

  “Pain.” Still another shrug. “Nightmares.”

  Tanner did not respond. He didn’t remember any nightmares other than the one he’d just had, but then he didn’t really remember much of anything after hitting the street.

  “You have a small fracture in your left wrist,” Leo said. “It doesn’t need to be casted, just taped like that to keep down excess movement. Couple weeks should do it. Other than that, nothing serious. Bruises and abrasions, minor lacerations.”

  “I want my clothes,” Tanner said.

  “Mixer has them,” Leo said.

  “Get them.”

  “He’s not here.” Another shrug. The shrugging, Tanner thought, was like a facial tic with this guy. “He’ll be back soon, half hour, something.”

  Tanner nodded, more to himself than to the junkie. He stood. “I’ve got to piss.”

  Leo looked at the door, then back at Tanner, but didn’t say anything.

  “You holding me prisoner?” Tanner asked.

  “Of course not. It’s just... I think Mixer wants to talk to you.”

  “The spikehead?”

  Leo nodded.

  “I’m coming back. Where the hell am I going to go without clothes?”

  Leo laughed. “In this part of town, you could go far.” He shrugged once more, then gestured at the door. “Take a right, second door on the left.”

  Tanner crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. Sputtering fluorescent lights, spaced irregularly along the ceiling, cast a shifting, fragmented illumination. The corridor stretched into darkness in both directions as the lights gave out. Tanner was fairly certain he was underground. He went right, following the junkie’s directions. The cement floor was warm under his bare feet, but the flickering lights hurt his eyes. Second door on the left. Tanner stopped, pulled open the door.

  A woman sat on the toilet inside the small bathroom, trousers bunched on the floor. She looked up at him, her expression even and unalarmed.

  “Sorry,” Tanner said. He backed out and closed the door. She had not seemed at all embarrassed. Tanner stood against the opposite wall and waited, listening to the sounds of the corridor. A nearly inaudible hum emanated from the walls, and now that he wasn’t moving he could feel a slight vibration in the floor. The hum and vibration ceased for a moment, then resumed. Tanner noticed now that there was graffiti on the walls—the lettering was tiny, and not inked but etched into the concrete with acid pens,

  ABOVE GROUND RADIO

  LOVE IS NOTHING MORE

  THAN BIO-HYDRAULICS

  BE RIGHT BACK—GODOT.

  The bathroom door opened and the woman came out. Her blouse was transparent, and Tanner found himself staring at her breasts—one was only half the size of the other, but they seemed, somehow, to match. A design job, he figured. He looked up at her face.

  The woman was staring at his crotch. Only fair, he decided. She stared at it, he thought, as if she could see through the pants. Then she tipped her head up to meet his gaze.

  “It’s not augmented, is it?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You’re missing out. And so is she, whoever she is.” Then she smiled, said, “Bye, Slick,” and headed down the hall. Soon she was no more than a shadow moving in and out of the sputtering lights, footsteps growing faint. Then she was beyond the lights and gone.

  Tanner opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. The room was brightly lit with silver-gray fluorescents, and was far cleaner than he had expected. The porcelain was white and almost shiny, the metal fixtures polished and bright. A large mirror above the sink reflected his image from the waist up. In the fluorescent light the bruises around his ribs looked worse, and he could see more of them now. A cut on his neck had opened, and a thread of dark red blood oozed slowly from it. His face didn’t look too bad, though he needed a shave. Three days, he guessed.

  Tanner moved to the toilet, raised the seat, and stood there, waiting. Nothing happened. He could feel the pressure of his bladder, but nothing came. Then there was a brief, sharp pain, and the stream burst forth. After the initial jolt, the pain eased, until it was nearly gone. When he was finished he felt empty, and a little dizzy. He flushed the toilet, then went to the sink and splashed cool water across his face. He stared at his reflection for a few moments, watching the water drip from his skin, then left and walked back.

  Sookie and the spikehead were in the room with Leo when Tanner walked in. Sookie sat on the cot next to Tanner’s clothes, his shoes on the floor at her feet. Tanner gazed at her, pain and memories of Carla surfacing once again.

  He turned away and looked at the spikehead. Over his eyes, the spikehead was wearing a contraption of bamboo, something like glasses. A weave of bamboo formed eye shutters that slid back and forth on tracks across his eyes like moving cages. His forehead was studded with twenty-five or thirty crust-tipped spikes of twisted skin.

  Leo approached Tanner, looked him over. “That cut’ll be all right,” he said, pointing at Tanner’s neck. “Any blood in the urine?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  Leo nodded. “Good. There was a little at first. Fall like that’s hard on the kidneys.”

  “I’m going to get dressed and leave,” Tanner said.

  Leo shrugged, glanced at the spikehead.

  “We risked a lot saving your ass,” the spikehead said. “I want to know why.”

  “Your name Mixer?” Tanner asked. The spikehead nodded, then Tanner said, “You risked it because you’re a nice guy.”

  Mixer tipped his head forward, looking at Tanner through flicking shutters of bamboo. “No, I’m not. So what are you doing that’s got Max after you? Got a right to know why I’m taking chances.”

  Tanner shook his head. “No, you don’t. I didn’t ask for your help.”

  The shutters flicked sideways; a twist formed on Mixer’s lips. A smile? “You’d be dead if we hadn’t.”

  “Maybe so. I appreciate what you did. But it’s my business, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  Sookie stood, stepped to Mixer’s side. “Maybe we can help,” she said. “Mixer knows the Tenderloin. He knows the runners and the grounders, and he knows...”

  Mixer reached out and put his hand gently but firmly over Sookie’s mouth. She tried to bite him and he pulled his hand away, but she did not say any more.

  Tanner walked to the cot and
dressed. His clothes, though torn or frayed in spots, were clean. His I.D. packet was, surprisingly, intact, but there was no money, and the credit chip was gone.

  “There wasn’t any money when we found you,” Sookie said. “Really. We wouldn’t take anything.”

  Tanner glanced at Leo, then turned to Mixer. “And no credit chip?”

  Mixer shook his head, and they both looked at Leo. The junkie shrugged once more. “What the hell am I going to do with your credit chip? I don’t have your eyes, do I?”

  Mixer’s bamboo shutters clicked several times. “Sell it back to the originating streetbank for two cents on the dollar.”

  No shrugging this time, just a set expression on the junkie’s face. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Mixer turned to Tanner. “I believe him.”

  Tanner nodded. “I’m leaving.”

  “All right,” Mixer said. “We’ll show you a way out.”

  “I’ll find my own way.”

  “I know a way’ll bring you up outside the Tenderloin.”

  “What if I want to stay inside?”

  “Do you?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Not right now. But just get me up to the street, I can get out just fine.”

  “Not a good idea,” Mixer responded. “You’ve got Max after you. Remember?”

  “I have to face that sooner or later.”

  “Why? You coming back in?”

  Now it was Tanner’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Fine. Then face it later. For now let’s do it my way.”

  Tanner hesitated. There was something to be said for Mixer’s thinking, and he was getting tired of arguing with the guy. “All right,” he said.

  Mixer started toward the door, then stopped, looking at Tanner. “Maybe Sookie’s right. Maybe we can help you.”