The Raven Page 15

  Keaton’s wife glowered at him. “You’re filthy. Get out of here.”

  Dez ignored her, glanced at the daughter. Smooth cheeks, blond hair framing her face. Eyes wide with fear. None of the haughtiness of her mother. None of the suspicion.

  It was uncanny, he realized now, how much the young woman resembled one of his former students. Emma Russell, her name had been. A gifted writer. But more importantly, a genuinely good-hearted kid.

  Had she been murdered when the monsters took over? Or had she become one of them?

  Keaton’s daughter was staring at him. Yes, she looked very much like Emma Russell.

  “Keep away from the Four Winds,” Dez said and started forward.

  Keaton’s wife sucked in a breath, huddled with her daughter against the wall to give Dez room to pass.

  “Don’t touch us!” Keaton’s wife hissed when Dez drew even with them.

  But he kept going, said, “Keep your daughter away from that bar.”

  To Dez’s back, Keaton’s wife demanded, “Why would I take her there? It’s a disgusting place.”

  Dez clicked off the Maglite and regarded her over his shoulder. “At least we agree on something.”

  “Get the hell out of my house!” she screamed.

  Dez holstered his Ruger. “If you see your husband—”

  “He’ll have you disemboweled for breaking in.”

  “—tell him there’s someone waiting for him at the bar.”

  Her face broke into a hateful smile. “No one tells Bill anything. Bill does the deciding.”

  Dez appraised her. “Sometimes I think the surviving Latents are worse than the rest.”

  She grinned viciously. “Your head will be on the wall.”

  “I ran into one yesterday a lot like you,” Dez said. “He was a Judas cow, led innocent people to their deaths.”

  “I’ll laugh while he tortures you,” she said, spittle flying from her lips.

  The daughter only stared at Dez, wide-eyed.

  “I suspect you’re not as hands-on,” Dez said to the mother. “You don’t go out and endanger yourself. Maybe you handle the finances….”

  She raised her chin primly. “I’m not part of the business.”

  “Sure as hell benefit from it, though, don’t you? You can move about freely, everyone so scared of Keaton they leave you alone.”

  Mania glinted in her eyes. “They’re right to be scared.”

  “But what kind of message are you sending your daughter?”

  “What are you—”

  “That it’s okay to profit from murder?”

  Her mouth fell open. “How…dare you….”

  “There’ve always been people like you,” Dez said, teeth bared. “The tyrants, they’re depraved, of course. But there are also the hangers-on who sit around and enjoy the fruits of the depravity.”

  The daughter had begun to cry. No callous veneer there. Maybe there was still hope for her.

  “You’re a monster!” Keaton’s wife shrieked.

  Dez looked at the daughter. “Monster. You hear your mom?”

  “Get out!” Keaton’s wife screamed, fists shaking. “Get out of my house!”

  But Dez was already making his way through the living room. He stepped a little faster once he turned the corner – Keaton’s wife was just the type to shoot someone in the back, and he had no doubt she had a firearm close by – and soon he was stepping through the screen door and hurrying across the yard toward the forest.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Owner of the Establishment

  When Dez returned to the Four Winds, he sensed an alteration as soon as he stepped through the back door.

  The entryway branched off in three directions. To the left was the main barroom, which only two years earlier had been used for church services. Straight ahead was a long corridor that appeared to lead to a series of smaller rooms, likely of the kind that were used for Bible studies and church potlucks in the old world.

  To the right were stairs descending into darkness.

  Peering into the murk, Dez recalled what Michael Summers had said:

  There’s something under there. The Hound.

  Dez shivered. Just what the hell was Michael talking about? Did Keaton keep a rabid dog in the basement? Cujo on steroids?

  Before he could freak himself out, Dez entered the Four Winds.

  The sensation of furtive gazes tracking his movements was stronger this time, but Dez shrugged it off, glanced behind the bar and discovered Iris, her back to the main room, her hands pouring drinks.

  He resumed his place at the bar, said to Iris’s back, “He wasn’t home.”

  “That’s because he’s coming here.”

  Dez tightened. “How do you know that?”

  “His men are here. The ones who do his scouting.”

  Scouting. Jesus.

  Dez scanned the crowd. “Which ones are they?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, and to Dez she sounded tired.

  “If I know who they are, I can—”

  “Badler and Hernandez are Keaton’s men, too. Did you forget that?”

  Though her back was to him, Dez realized she was staring at him in the long strip of mirror.

  Iris went on. “Don’t you know that everyone in here is either employed by Keaton or so scared of him they’ll do whatever he says?”

  “Keaton’s the only one I need to see.”

  Iris turned, grinned at him incredulously. “Why do you act like you’re in control here? You don’t even have powers.”

  Dez regarded her levelly. “I’ve stayed alive so far.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t do anything to his house.”

  It seemed an inopportune time to mention his encounter with Mrs. Keaton. “The house is fine,” he said.

  Iris blew out a relieved breath.

  Dez asked, “Who did Keaton take from you?”

  Iris glanced down the length of the bar, as if considering fleeing. Then, in a voice that was almost inaudible, she said, “My daughter.”

  Dez felt like he’d been slugged in the gut. He thought of Will, his dead son.

  His voice a croak, he asked, “How old is she?”

  “She’d be five by now. If she’s still….” Iris stared down at the burnished wood. “I didn’t think Keaton recognized me when I showed up to ask for a job. I thought I could insinuate myself into his business, find out where he’d taken Cassidy. But within a few hours…he knew….”

  “Lefebvre,” Dez guessed.

  She nodded. She wiped her nose roughly, scowled, obviously grappling with her emotions. She was good at it, Dez reflected. Had plenty of practice.

  “Once Keaton found out who I was, it was easy for him to keep me in line. Tease me now and then about rewarding my loyalty. Or punishing me for screwing up.”

  “Using your daughter?”

  “He never makes it clear whether she’s alive or dead, and he never says what direction they took her.”

  “You’ve been here a year?” he asked.

  “A year of my daughter’s life.”

  Dez frowned. “That means she was—”

  “Only two when the bombs came. And my husband was still alive.”

  Dez tried not to let his surprise show. It shouldn’t have shocked him; Iris was a beautiful woman. But somehow he couldn’t imagine her with a husband.

  He knew the question was potentially devastating, but he asked it anyway. “Was Cassidy your only child?”

  Iris laughed mirthlessly. “Patrick and I’d only been married a few months when I got pregnant. We didn’t have much time to have another kid.”

  Dez kept his eyes averted. “Do you believe she’s still alive?”

  “I have to.”

  “And P
atrick?” he asked.

  She turned away, began lifting steins off a drying rack and hanging them on hooks.

  He toyed with the idea of bringing up his son

  (Will. His name was Will.)

  but decided against it. What good would it do? Iris would feel no better, and Dez would feel worse.

  Too late, he thought. He already felt worse.

  Why did you have to marry so badly? a voice demanded. Why couldn’t you have chosen better? That way, you might have been with Will when everything went to hell. You could have protected him.

  Dez clenched his fists, leaned forward on the bar. If I’d have married someone else, there would never have been a Will. Now stop torturing me and let me enjoy a goddamned drink.

  Shivering a little, Dez made himself as comfortable as he could on the barstool. He considered retrieving a book from his backpack, distracting himself that way, but opted to sit in silence, to risk glances at Iris when he thought it was safe.

  Terhune materialized at the bar and relayed a sizeable drink order. Dez was watching Iris fill the glasses and steins when a gust of frigid air from his right told him someone had just entered the building the same way Dez had.

  Keaton barged through the doorway.

  So unprepared for the man’s entrance was Dez that he merely gaped as the powerfully-built boss strode into the Four Winds.

  “Where the hell is he?” Keaton growled. “Where’s the son of a bitch who broke into my house?”

  Dez’s barstool was only thirty feet from where Keaton stood. There was no point in drawing it out.

  Dez swiveled on the stool and stared at Keaton.

  When the broad-shouldered man’s gaze fixed on him, Dez remembered everything: Susan’s screams, the laughter of Keaton’s thugs as they effortlessly knocked Dez aside, Dez’s consciousness dimming as the men dragged Susan away. Dez awakening to find himself broken and alone.

  “Where is she?” Dez asked, then silently cursed himself. He’d planned on letting Keaton speak first. But now, with every eye in the Four Winds on him, Dez no longer trusted himself to play it cool.

  Keaton eyeballed him. Sizing him up. The larger man appeared amused. “‘She’?” Keaton asked. He took a couple slow steps toward Dez. “Who is ‘she’?”

  Dez glanced at Iris, whose face had gone as pale as the ivory dishrag she clutched.

  Keaton continued his slow advance, his whiskered mouth split in a malicious grin.

  “Your face is familiar,” Keaton said. “I remember it because it’s sort of pretty.” Keaton beamed at the patrons of the Four Winds. “Ain’t he pretty, folks?”

  A fusillade of assent from the crowd.

  Keaton drew closer and Dez was afforded a better view of the man. What he saw only confirmed the assumptions he’d made about Keaton since Susan’s abduction. The man lived like a king, compared to the rest of the world. The dusky beard was stitched with white, the smile lines around the man’s eyes augmenting Keaton’s charm rather than aging him. Keaton had used some sort of product on his hair, the sheen catching the phantasmagorical orange glow of the wall sconces and sharpening the upjutting locks of dark hair, giving them a vaguely horn-like appearance. His attire was an amalgam of conflicting eras and styles. Black jackboots swallowed his blue jean cuffs. Though Dez was sure Keaton had trekked through all sorts of terrain in them, there was nary a scuff on the dully gleaming leather. Probably had his lackeys shine them, Dez thought ruefully. Another benefit of being the boss.

  “You’re not quite as bewitching as the girly we found in your warren,” Keaton said, his attention returning to Dez. “You really oughta be ashamed of yourself, boy. Making such a delectable creature live down there like a mole.”

  Dez continued to study Keaton, who’d closed the distance to twenty feet. The sports coat was old-fashioned, single-breasted with brown checks. Tweed maybe, like the kind a 1930s gangster would wear for a casual evening out. Beneath the coat was a chocolate-brown vest buttoned to the middle of Keaton’s broad chest, above which peeked a beige shirt with an unbuttoned collar. Tufts of black chest hair ended just shy of his muscular throat.

  Keaton fingered his checked coat. “You like it? I found it in the home of an old couple who used to live in the Leonard Mason Mansion. Know the one I mean?”

  Dez did, but he didn’t see the point of telling him. The house wasn’t twenty miles from the Four Winds, in a city called Lafayette. Nestled in a historical district, the home was three stories tall, with a square turret protruding from its center. Dez had only driven by the home a couple times, but wasn’t at all surprised Keaton had pillaged it.

  And staring at the man now, Dez thought he understood him better. He wasn’t just a flesh peddler; he was a collector. He’d collected these old-fashioned clothes, perhaps after butchering the elderly couple who’d lived in the Leonard Mason Mansion.

  Had he collected Susan too? Was it possible she was still nearby? Stashed away as a concubine?

  Dez was on his feet before he knew it.

  “You want to know if she mentioned you?” Keaton asked.

  Mentioned, Dez thought. Past tense.

  No!

  Keaton grinned. “Boy, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?” He moved closer and stood only eight feet away. At some point, a trio of Keaton’s thugs had slunk forward to stand behind their boss, but Dez had been too fixated on Keaton to notice.

  “You do have it bad,” Keaton said in a meditative voice. “I was the same way when I first met Barbara. Lovesick, smitten. I would’ve licked her toes had she asked me.” A laugh. “Come to think of it, I guess I did lick her toes. Always been a foot man, I have.”

  Keaton’s goons chuckled. The goons were not remarkable in any way, save their musculature. It appeared that Keaton had recruited the area farms for the sturdiest young men to form his abduction squad. None of them had made an impression the day they’d kidnapped Susan, but now that Dez was in their company, yes, he was pretty certain these were the same cretins who’d carried out Keaton’s orders.

  “Your wife is skittish,” Dez said. “Your daughter too.”

  For a millisecond Keaton’s smug mask slipped, and Dez saw the rage banked beneath. Then the man recovered.

  “Well, good for you. I thought we’d need to beat the hell out of you to get you to admit you were the one who broke into my home. Yank out your fingernails with pliers maybe. But you saved us the trouble.”

  “You didn’t find it,” Dez said.

  Keaton leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “You’re gonna try that old gambit, huh? Gonna tell me you planted a bomb in my house and the only way you’ll reveal its whereabouts is if I tell you where I sent your bitch?”

  Dez’s stomach plummeted, but he kept his expression neutral. It was exactly what he’d planned to tell Keaton.

  Keaton chuckled, strode up close to Dez, who tightened but did his best not to betray how frightened he was. “You really that simplistic, boy?” Keaton made a fist, tapped his knuckles on the side of Dez’s head. “Got shit for brains?” Keaton stepped toward the crowd, spread his big arms. “You show up to challenge me, and your only plan is to insinuate I better fess up before you blow up my house?” He turned, leveled a forefinger at Dez. “Forgive my political incorrectness, boy, but when I was a kid, we’d have called someone like you mentally retarded.”

  Behind Keaton, the patrons roared laughter.

  “I did rig an explosive,” Dez lied. More laughter from the crowd. Dez felt his composure slipping. “And there’s something else too.”

  Keaton raised his eyebrows, nodded. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

  “If anything happens to me,” Dez said, raising his voice to be heard above the raucous crowd, “someone will come looking.”

  More laughter, but a few patrons grumbled. Paranoia was ever present in the new world, and threats such as the one Dez had
just uttered tended to draw it to the surface like poison.

  There was mock-seriousness on Keaton’s face. “I see. And what manner of beast is this mysterious individual? Vampire? Werewolf?” His bushy eyebrows rose. “Empusa?”

  Dez had no clue what an Empusa was, and the mention of a new creature caught him off-guard. If, that was, such a creature existed. It was entirely possible Keaton was making it up.

  “He’ll come,” Dez said.

  “If I don’t tell you where your woman is.”

  “That’s right.”

  More murmurs from the patrons. Beyond Keaton, Dez caught a glimpse of Crosby, Gattis—Dez was too nervous to recall the man’s real name—and the pierced simpleton. They looked eager for retribution.

  Keaton took out a cigar, lit it. Stepped closer and blew the smoke in Dez’s face. He began walking in a slow revolution around Dez, whose eyes watered from the smoke. “You got no special powers, no heavy artillery that I can see. That crossbow of yours looks cool, but it won’t do much against my crew.” He sucked on his cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling. “You got anger, but that’s about it.”

  Dez didn’t answer.

  Directly behind Dez, Keaton said, “Admit it. You had no plan. You just hoped it would work out.”

  Dez said nothing.

  Keaton stepped around so Dez could see him. “It’s been a night of surprises. You surprising my wife and daughter, you showing up here all by yourself. Hey, that reminds me,” he said, glancing at someone over Dez’s shoulder.

  Iris, he realized.

  “Hey, Iris. My spies tell me you’ve been sweet-talking our new friend here. That about right?”

  Dez turned and took in the defiant set of Iris’s jaw. She said, “I found out his story, if that’s what you mean. Would you rather I not speak to my customers?”

  Keaton punched Dez chummily on the chest. “You hear that? ‘My customers’. Like she’s the one owns the place.” He spread his arms in that grand, scornful way of his. “Lady Iris, you’re just a barkeep.”

  When Iris didn’t answer, the grin drained from Keaton’s face. In a toneless voice, he said, “Maybe you did forget. Maybe you need reminding.”

  “You’re the boss,” Iris allowed. “But I don’t think I did anything wrong.”