A Perfect Machine(31)
He thought briefly about Edward Palermo, who should be dead right now. Once Carl Duncan had left the warehouse on Kendul’s trail, and Palermo’s men were back inside, Krebosche’s uncle Gerald – who’d witnessed firsthand, as had William, the “accident” that set them all down this path – was supposed to kill Palermo. Just walk into his ridiculous little caboose and put him down. But in a heartbeat, that plan had gone to shit. Gerald had panicked when Palermo sent men out to search the grounds.
Krebosche would shed tears over his uncle later, but he did wish one more had been added to the list before the body count was over.
Which made him think, too, about Carl Duncan, his old high school friend –
– his only friend, his conscience didn’t let him forget.
Yes, OK, only friend, then. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was capable of having what other people called friends – could count on one hand (and even that was overkill, if he was being honest) the number of people he’d ever thought of as such. And all those relationships ended horrendously, anyway, through no fault of his own. Or at least that’s what he told himself. On some level, he knew there was something socially wrong with him, but he’d always been unclear what it was that drove people away. What it was precisely.
No word from Duncan so, yes, most certainly dead. Or at least beyond saving. Not that Krebosche would have tried to save him, of course. As soon as their plan had been devised, Krebosche had emotionally cut ties in his mind. His heart. He was capable of this – of simply shutting that part of himself off. A clean, quick cut.
As for the full plan, well, Duncan following Kendul back to where the Hunters hid out would have given them more ammunition for their story, naturally, but it wasn’t to be. Palermo was smart, had eyes everywhere around his warehouse. Of course he did. Krebosche expected as much, but still hoped for the best. But because he’d expected Palermo would be prepared, he’d sent Duncan in to do the up-close work – which Duncan was foolish and bullheaded enough to be more than happy to do. A loner himself, Duncan had an inflated view of his and William’s friendship, which William had never downplayed. He knew he’d need people to help him carry out his plan as the time grew nearer. And family and friends (well, just “friend”) worked best – there was loyalty to be mined there. And again, if he was being honest, he likely wouldn’t shed much in the way of tears for his uncle, either. Gerald was just a witness, involved due to his own heartbreak. The only one in his trainwreck of a family he’d ever truly cared for was his sister. Dead now, shot in the side of the head by one of the Hunters’ stray bullets…
But that road didn’t bear going down right now. There was work to be done. Plans to be adjusted. Memories to be saved.
But still this memory played again in his head, unstoppable as always:
Bright day, really bright. In memory’s eye, it’s blinding. He and Gerald had taken his little sister, Marla, to an afternoon movie, gone for ice cream afterward. The theatre was off the beaten path, near an industrial area, a favorite of his uncle’s. Not in the greatest neighborhood, but Krebosche was OK with it since he and Gerald were both with her. Krebosche was nearly ten years older than his sister, so he’d always felt closer to a parent than a brother. Always watched out for her, never let anything bad happen.
The sun was setting and they’d had to find parking a few blocks away from the theatre. A sketchy part of town, for sure, but nothing overly alarming. Until they heard what sounded like gunshots coming from a few blocks away. Just a few at first, then a peppering. He exchanged a concerned look with his uncle, but immediately thought maybe it was a car backfiring. Maybe kids with firecrackers. Certainly nothing that–
–more shots, this time closer. Krebosche holding his sister’s hand tightly, then easing up a little as they continued walking, the sense of alarm, the memories of the sounds seemingly being washed away from his mind. He looked at his uncle again, but this time there was barely a reaction on the other man’s face. He just looked mildly troubled, as though thinking of something a co-worker had said to him that had bugged him that day, or replaying a mild argument he’d had with his wife. Annoyance, not alarm, not true concern. Even though the sounds were getting closer.
Looking back on it these many years later, Krebosche thinks that what happened next might be due to the fact that children aren’t as susceptible to whatever memory wipe weirdness is at play in keeping the Inferne Cutis hidden; children are much less likely to dismiss things with rational explanations. They’re curious, fearless. Sometimes – often – to their detriment.
In Krebosche’s mind, the gunshots/firecrackers/backfires dulled to a barely recognizable pulsing at the back of his skull. The three of them passed by the mouth of an alleyway as the streetlights above popped on. If they’d turned their heads at that moment, they would have seen someone getting shot by two other people. Bullets jabbing into their head, neck, and chest. As it was, in Gerald’s and William’s brains, there was nothing to see, no sounds to attract their attention.
And the car was just up ahead. His sister was excited, wanted to run, maybe wanted to race them to the car.
Krebosche felt his grip loosen a little bit. A little more. More yet… And then she was running ahead, nearly past the mouth of the alley now, when she suddenly lilted sideways, the side of her head burst open, a red blossom of bone and blood.