The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(45)

Billy is still laid up with his belly wound, but at least he’s not dead. Lerajie, Babetta, and the old toothless guy are dead (I never could remember his name, but with the white power tats on his knuckles I didn’t try very hard). The rest of us are bandaged and stitched together, but basically functional.

“We’re short on people, so this is going to get complicated,” Daja says. “We need people on the run, but we need to leave enough behind to protect the Magistrate.”

“Why not just do four and four?” says Wanuri.

“I thought of that, but with shit the way it is, I’d like one more to stay here as guard.”

“That leaves three of us for the run. We can make do with that,” Johnny says to the group.

Daja shakes her head.

“That’s thin if anything goes wrong out there. Even if it’s just a breakdown when you’re far out. Two on one bike might not have the fuel to make it back.”

I raise my hand.

Daja gives me a look.

“This isn’t kindergarten. Say what you have to say.”

“Get Traven to help stand guard. That will give us four for the road.”

The pack laughs quietly.

“No offense, dear, but he looks like he’s afraid of moths,” says Doris.

“I used to work with him back home. He put the fear of God in a lot of bad people. And I watched him kill an Inquisitor with his bare hands.”

Medea Bava was the grand high executioner for the Sub Rosa in L.A., and she had a real thing for me. She might have taken me down, too, if it wasn’t for Traven.

“An Inquisitor? How old are you?” says Barbora.

“Not that kind of Inquisitor. More like an enforcer for a group of underground power brokers.”

“Father Traven?” says Daja. “Mr. Bookworm Librarian? You saw him kill someone.”

“With his bare hands. And he’s damned more souls than Hooters. He could do a trick called the Via Dolorosa. Whenever he wanted, he could fill a soul full of so much sin it was a one-way ticket to Pandemonium.”

The pack isn’t impressed. Lots of shaking heads and nos.

“Look, mate, I respect loyalty to a friend, but you’ve got to be fucking joking,” says Johnny.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” says Doris, which raises a few eyebrows. She’s not used to speaking up. Her hands absently play with the knives on her belt.

“Care to explain?” Frederickson says. He scratches his scalped head.

“Back home, people didn’t think much of me either. I cooked and cleaned for my family. I had a cat and a book club and I baked cookies for the school fund-raisers. Then I had my little . . . well, incident with the in-laws.”

People laugh. Wanuri makes a chopping motion with her hand.

“The first trial was a hung jury and the second one acquitted me. Why? Because I was nothing. A harmless little housewife who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe Father Traven is a bit like me. Hiding his talent under a bushel.”

Daja gives me a hard look.

“If I trust Marian the Librarian and something happens, you guarantee he won’t wilt like a flower?”

“You can trust me.”

The Magistrate said so, remember? Or are you still mad enough to hold a grudge?

She looks at me and around the camp.

“Fine,” she says impatiently. “Johnny, Frederickson—get him over here.”

“You can’t be serious,” Frederickson says.

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? Get off your ass and bring him to me.”

He goes to get his bike, a Hellion-style BMW cruiser. The tank wraps over his knees like the flared head of a cobra. Instead of chrome pipes and forks, they’re made of some kind of thick bone. The pipes glow green when he hits the throttle.

“Assuming that the padre works out, that leaves four for the road. Volunteers?”

Doris says, “I’ll go.”

Gisco raises his hand.

“How about you, Wanuri?” Daja says.

“I’d rather stay and keep an eye on the Magistrate.”

“I’d rather have you on the road.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s the fourth.”

Everyone looks at me.

“Oh, goody.”

Daja says, “Wanuri, you ride point with the map. Everybody else takes orders from you.”

She looks at me.

“Everybody.”

“Got it, boss.”

“You know no one here thinks you’re nothing, right, Doris?” says Barbora.

“I know, but it’s still nice to hear,” Doris says. “And I know they know back home. By now, the house will have been sold and the new owners will have dug up the garden. Oh, the things they’ll find down there.”

We smile along with her and pat her on the back because sometimes a little revenge is all you can squeeze out of one lifetime. And besides, it’s Doris. Her family. A nasty neighbor or two. The guy at the local market who parked his sports car across two spaces. Local dog owners who were mean to her cat. Anyone she planted in that garden, you just know they had it coming.



Wanuri follows the map and we follow Wanuri. Four people. Four bikes. The usual flat road and hills. We ride an hour from camp before Wanuri signals to slow. We turn off the ley line we’ve been following for days and head a short way into some low, stony hills. From there, Wanuri uses the Magistrate’s spyglass to check out a small town a quarter of a mile away. She doesn’t seem interested in giving anyone else a peek, so I light a Malediction and hold out the pack to Doris. She shakes her head. Gisco takes one and I light it.