A Perfect Machine(33)

“I don’t know how they do it, Darby,” Krebosche said, knowing how weak it all sounded, “but there’s some kind of… I dunno… weird blanket that suffuses their activity, muffles the gunshots, wipes people’s memories when they do happen to see what’s going on. Something makes our eyes just slide right off these people, makes our brains cancel them out. Hell, I tried to take pictures of the night I saw them shooting each other, and all I got back on the camera were gray and black blurs, so indistinct they could’ve been anything at all. The only way I know as much as I do is because of how long I’ve been tracking them. And the only way I’ve been able to do that is by writing myself notes, reminding myself that what I’m after is real, isn’t some fucking delusion. I’m wrung out from it all, but I know I’m close to something huge here, Paul. Please, you need to work on this with me, help me figure out the missing pieces. Please.”

Darby didn’t say anything for about ten full seconds – so long that Krebosche thought maybe he’d hung up. But then: “Krebosche… William, listen. I know it was tough when you lost Adelina. Is that the woman you mentioned? Is that who you think they killed? ’Cause when a mind is under as much stress as yours must have been, sometimes it can’t take the pressure, and it starts… inventing things that make sense. That make it easier to deal with. You know? Same goes for your sister. That was a stray bullet. Horrifying, yes, but random all the same. There’s always been gang activity in that area. To be honest, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but your uncle should have known better than to–”

Krebosche set his jaw. His eyes turned to hard black stones in his head as he cut Paul off. “This isn’t about Adelina. Or Marla. Not like that. Not how you think. I’m not fucking delusional. I’m not.”

Krebosche wanted to say more, but images of Adelina and Marla flooded his mind, making it hard to form words.

“OK, well, either way, William. We can’t run this story. There’s not nearly enough evidence or sources to–”

“I know!” Krebosche shouted, finally losing his temper. “That’s why I need you to fucking help me, you self-important son of a bitch!”

He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that the conversation was over. But it turned out that more was over than just the conversation.

“That’s it, Krebosche,” Darby said, his voice a hard, cold rock. “We’re done. Don’t call me anymore. I won’t help you. Not now. Not ever.”

Dial tone.



* * *



Krebosche furiously packed a duffle bag, just cramming things in – his notes, toiletries, clothes, a gun – thinking, Fuck Darby. I’ll get Palermo, and expose everything myself. He knew it was foolhardy and would likely end horribly for him, but he wasn’t sure how much he cared anymore.

He would go to a motel near the warehouse, formulate a plan there. Now that he knew he was entirely on his own, that no one (who wasn’t already dead) would take him seriously, a them or me mentality slowly started taking shape in his head. Once it had fully taken root, his direction would be clear.





E L E V E N





I’ll cut his throat while he sleeps.

The snow had let up a little, but not very much, when Krebosche pulled into the Knight’s Inn motel. It was a bit of a shithole, but it was the closest motel to the warehouse. Even though he’d been in the area only hours before, he needed to consult his notes on its location, and navigate toward it as though for the first time.

When the blood starts flowing, he thought, still amped up from his conversation with Darby, I’ll tell him why I’m killing him, and those will be the last words he ever hears.

Then another voice in his head: Oh, yes, you’re such a badass. Sending your uncle, and someone who actually liked you – as much as anyone can like you, that is – to do your dirty work. You realize those people are both dead because of you. They died horribly while you watched from afar with your ridiculous fucking binoculars plastered to your face. Did part of you hope that would happen so you could finally be rid of everyone who cared about you even a little bit? ’Cause with them gone – and ties now broken with Paul Darby at the newspaper, as well – now you can be the hero. Man of the hour.

Krebosche tried to ignore this other voice, but it persisted.

Maybe you want to die. Maybe you’re sick of dealing with this level of loss, and this is the way out. Just barrel in, guns figuratively blazing like a moron. Is that it, dummy? Is that what you really want? For all this death to be for nothing?

Krebosche closed his eyes tightly, wishing the other voice away. No, he thought, that’s not what I want. That’s not what I want at all.

He felt his pulse slow, his heart stop pounding, his mind clear a little.

But as calm as he became, he still felt deeply that he needed to see Palermo die. Kendul, too, if at all possible, though that was secondary. One of the two was enough, and was likely all he could hope for. He didn’t give a flying fuck if the Inferne Cutis was exposed. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the mystery was ever solved – for him or anyone else. Palermo would die. Once that was done, he wouldn’t care what happened to himself. His goal would be achieved.

He paid cash for his room, keyed the door, chucked his duffle on the bed, and immediately headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he felt as though the water had swept the cobwebs from his head. A plan formed in his mind. He saw it step by step, was certain it would work. And after, while Palermo’s body cooled in a puddle of his own blood, maybe Krebosche would run, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just stand there, staring at the body, hoping that wherever Adelina and Marla were – if they were anywhere at all – they could see what he’d done for them. See what they’d meant to him. What he was willing to do to make things right again. As right as they could be, anyway.