And even if it goes exactly the way it’s supposed to, I don’t expect I’ll be surviving it. The best I can reasonably hope for is to take out as many people when I go as I can.
* * *
An hour later I was in the backseat of a minivan and taking in the less scenic portions of northern New Jersey. (The snow covering helped, from a beautification standpoint, but only marginally.) Beside me, in a baby’s car seat, was Jerry. I can’t even begin to tell you how funny this looked. My captor—who introduced himself as John—was handling the driving. He was doing the limit with a fresh-faced all-American smile on his face. Joe Anybody on a Sunday afternoon jaunt. Which made me the brother-in-law, just in from the airport. Or the other half of a gay couple, depending on who asked.
At my feet was my bag. John hadn’t bothered to search it, which was just as well. I didn’t have anything I could use in there. I’d left the gun in the park, and it would take hours to kill John with Tchekhy’s tape recorder. The only thing I’d rather they didn’t know I had was the satellite phone. Of course, they had one of their own.
It had been assumed from the outset that I would be going quietly. Seemed like a reasonable assumption, as they had my girlfriend hostage and I was supposedly the chivalrous sort and all. And really, you had to give them credit for thinking of getting a hostage since we all know I’m not an easy guy to forcibly transport. They were pretty close to being right about the chivalry part, but that was about it. I certainly wasn’t going peacefully.
“So where are we headed?” I asked John No-Last-Name.
“To see my employer,” he said with a smile one reserves for friendly chats about the weather.
“That’s self-evident,” I said. “I was looking for something more specific. Like what region of the country, or even what country in general. I just want to know how to dress for the occasion.”
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “We’ve made all the arrangements.”
“Uh-huh. Hope you have a lot of cash.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A lot of cash,” I said. “This thing gets what? Twelve miles to the gallon? For a cross-country drive, it’s just not very practical.” John recognized a clumsy fishing expedition for what it was and didn’t answer. So I continued. “Not to mention dangerous for the environment. You know, I’ve been reading up on these—”
“Hey, Adam,” Jerry interjected, “was she good or what?” He was examining the photograph of Clara and doing things to himself that I’m willing to bet the designers of the baby seat never envisioned.
“You like that, do you?” I was decidedly unhappy with my erstwhile friend. “You like to have them tied up like that?”
“I’m more of a handcuff guy myself,” he admitted. “Crashed a women’s prison once? Un-fucking-believable. You know what I mean?”
I took the photo from him.
I guess you’re probably wondering how I ever ended up trusting something as unpleasant as Jerry in the first place. You may have also noticed that while I have some fascinating tales about various other uncommon beings—vampires, pixies, demons—I haven’t told you any about iffrits. This is because there are no interesting stories. Iffrits are completely and utterly useless. They have never, to my knowledge, done anything particularly brave or particularly evil. Or anything at all. No iffrit has made an impact that I know of on history in any way whatsoever. Evolutionarily speaking, I believe their specific niche in the world is to serve as excellent drinking partners, which is exactly how I’ve always treated them. I trusted Jerry in that capacity and never anticipated betrayal from him because betrayal would just be too much work for an iffrit.
“So how’d this play out, Jerry?” I asked him.
“How’d what play out?”
“How did you get involved with all of this?”
“Yer pissed, ain’t-cha?” he observed.
“However could you tell?”
He popped the harness loose and scampered out of the seat. Another thing the designers probably hadn’t counted on. “Awww, don’t be that way, Adam,” he said, leaning across my knee to try to look me in the eye. “It’s just money, is all.”
“Just money,” I repeated. I really wanted to strangle the little prick. “When did iffrits ever care about money? You don’t even have any pockets to put it in.”
“I’m getting entrepreneurial.”
“I’d be amazed if you even knew what that word meant.”
“I figure with enough cash I can maybe buy my own beer truck or something. Or a bar.”
Now that sounded more like an iffrit.
“You’d sell me out for a beer truck?”
“So it’s not the best thing I ever done. Look, somebody who knows somebody tipped me off that you were worth some money, okay? That’s all.”
“Who?” I asked.
“You don’t know the guy. Turned up in Sully’s one night asking about you. I told him to fuck off, course, but then I got to thinking about it and decided it might be worth looking into. So I followed him and stole his little phone thingie. And the guy on the other end told me what was what, gave me his private number, and here I am. Guess he figured since I knew you I’d be good to keep in touch with.”
“Uh-huh. And when was this?”
“Couple of months ago.”
“A couple of…” Sonofabitch.
I couldn’t help it. I grabbed him by the neck and held him up. This caught the attention of my cheery driver.
“Please don’t do that,” he said. “I’d rather you weren’t spotted throttling our baby.” Not “don’t kill my partner,” just “don’t blow my cover.” I wondered if Jerry was even aware how expendable he’d made himself. Probably not.
I picked my bag up off the floor and tossed it on the seat beside me, shoved Jerry down where the bag had been, and put my foot on his throat.
“Is this better?” I asked John.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Hey!” Jerry complained.
“Shut up,” I said. “Two months ago, Jerry? You led these people to me in Boston, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he choked.
“And to the apartment. You called him from Gary and Nate’s apartment and do you know what happened then? Rather than contact one of his bounty hunters, he sent a demon to save himself some cash. A demon, Jerry.”
He was starting to get my point. “Hey, now c’mon, those guys were dicks!”
I stepped harder. He made a gagging noise and then something that may have been a hairball spat out of his mouth and narrowly missed my pant leg.
“They’re dead now, you little asshole.”
He tried speaking but found it too difficult until I eased up. “You were supposed to be there!” he complained. “How was I supposed to know you was gonna leave?”
Had I crushed his windpipe at that moment, I doubt it would have elicited much more than a thank-you from the driver for doing his job for him. But I had more questions saved up, so I released Jerry. He sat up, coughing and hacking and surely disappointed to have lost his erection, while I returned to the view outside the window and entertained happy thoughts about iffrit dismemberment.
Based on the road signs, it appeared we were still heading south. I don’t know a lot about state highways, but I do know driving to Seattle—which was where Robert Grindel last resided—would involve heading west. So maybe we weren’t driving there.
“Is she safe?” I asked the driver, of Clara.
“Of course,” he said. “We’re not cruel people. Just insistent.”
“You guys must have finally figured out you need to work together, huh?”
“I don’t understand your meaning, friend,” he said cheerily, as if we really were friends. Did he think being personable would keep him alive longer?