A Perfect Machine(32)

She fell, smacked the pavement hard.

Only then did the sounds filter enough into the two men’s heads for them to react. Gunshots. And panic crowded into their chests. They rushed to Marla’s unmoving body. Instantly knew she was dead. Looked down the alley. No sign of anyone. They didn’t know it then, but the Run had simply moved on, to other alleys, other sections of the industrial park. Those involved likely had no idea about the bullet that had ricocheted off the brick of a wall, the corner of a dumpster. However it had gone astray was of little consequence. What mattered was that it had killed Krebosche’s sister.

Though even now, he had to struggle to hold onto this fact. He felt something behind his forehead airbrushing, massaging the information. The wheres and hows.

But it had never been quite enough to wash it completely from his mind, his heart. The pain was more important, proved more durable than whatever this whitewashing effect was. He’d had to continually remind his uncle, nearly daily, what had happened. But for him, it stuck harder. Clung tighter.

Maybe because he was younger. Maybe because it had been his hand that’d let her go.

Shaking his head, dispelling the memory, Krebosche stood up, went to the washroom, splashed cold water on his face, then headed to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Time to get writing. Once the story hit – and if it did get picked up by the major newspapers – it would be all over the Internet, on people’s cell phones. Everywhere. It couldn’t be forgotten. He’d work tirelessly to spread it as far and wide as possible at every opportunity. The truth couldn’t stay hidden forever – not with a massive spotlight like this shining on it. It would gain momentum. He’d get invited onto TV shows to talk about what he’d seen, what he’d heard. Whatever it was that clouded people’s minds would not be able to stand up to such exposure. The story would solidify, be investigated by authorities.

And I know where they hide… the Runners, anyway, he thought. And once they were in custody, the Hunters’ hideout would soon be discovered, too, he’d no doubt.

It was all just a matter of time.

Krebosche’s coffeemaker beeped, signaling he had a full pot ready. He poured himself a cup, and began writing.

Five hours later, the sun having risen but still tucked away behind a thick layer of dark clouds, Krebosche had the bare bones of the piece. Some holes, some confusing bits, and a lot of questions sure to come from his editor friend. Krebosche had been tracking Palermo for nearly two years, with last night’s foray planned to be the icing on the cake. But Palermo’s and Kendul’s deaths would have to wait. Exposing them and watching their society crumble would have to be enough for now.

Not that Krebosche knew what the Inferne Cutis was, exactly. For all his notes and tireless spying, he’d only come up with a partial picture of what they did. He’d only ever seen one Run – and only a very short portion of that, which had already mostly faded from his mind. Only little bits and pieces of his memory of that night still remained. Though he had also seen a woman taken into a house and never come out again. A woman he knew. Cared for.

But he blocked this path of thought, as he’d been unable to do with the memory of his sister. Enough, he thought. Just… enough. No more of this tonight…

He knew – far better than most everyone else – about the weird memory blanket that came down over everything they did. He’d never spoken to anyone who knew a single thing about this group of people. The only ones he’d been able to convince of their existence were his uncle Gerald, and his friend Carl – Gerald because he, along with Krebosche, had seen the killing that changed their lives, and Carl because he was desperate to believe he was valued, needed. He realized quickly that to convince anyone else he needed to amass evidence, gather it, organize it, footnote it, save multiple copies of it, then pore over it in hope that portions of it would stick in his mind so he wouldn’t lose focus. He reread as much as possible of his notes every single day.

And now, he thought, with his finger hovering over the Send button of his email program, Paul Darby’s addy in the To field of the message, it would either be enough, or it wouldn’t. Simple as that.

He clicked the button.



* * *



“What is this crap?” Darby said on the phone fifteen minutes later. “How many times do I have to tell you to quit with this fucking paranoid bullshit?”

“It’s not paranoia,” Krebosche said. “I saw them kill my little sister. I think they killed another woman, too.”

“You saw this with your own eyes?” Darby said.

“Yes, I did.” Krebosche tried to remain calm, but irritation was creeping into his voice. He couldn’t help it. He’d been dealing with Darby’s attitude for at least a year, and he was reaching the end of his rope with the smug fucker.

“Uh-huh,” Darby said.

Silence.

“Listen, Darby, I know this seems far-fetched, but–”

“Yeah, just a little,” Darby said, cutting Krebosche off. “For instance, explain to me why no one else has heard of these mysterious gangsters. The infernal whatever-the-fucks.”

“Inferne Cutis.”

“Yeah, them. And besides murder, what else are you accusing them of? Running around in the streets shooting at each other over near Barton and Carter – for hours. Like no one in the neighborhood would have heard that, maybe woken up to see what the fuck was going on. No cops would’ve been by to investigate the fuckton of noise that would’ve caused. The hospitals and the morgue just might’ve also had some record of the bodies, don’t you think? Where’d they go? Vanished into the fucking ether, just like these ridiculous theories and accusations ought to?”