Chapter 20
Immediately following their first encounter with the man calling himself Jonah Lancroft, the Skinners fully expected a veritable tsunami of excrement to hit St. Louis. The Mud Flu was already being called an epidemic by news sources that didn’t even know the full story, and the occasional dead Nymar showing up in national coverage looking like a pile of burnt calamari didn’t help matters. But the tsunami didn’t come.
Since Henry had already found Ned’s house, the Skinners all but abandoned it. Only Daniels and Ned remained, but they were either engrossed in research or accustomed to coming and going without drawing attention from the neighbors. The windows were all shut, which suited a Nymar and recluse just fine. Rico took it upon himself to act as Tristan’s shadow and personal guard, while Cole and Paige settled into a hotel in South County.
After a day and a half, the two of them drove back to the club in Sauget. Windows were boarded, the neon sign was dark, and the front door was nailed shut. Cole ran up to knock, but spared his knuckles when he read the note from the Health Department stapled to the newly placed two-by-fours.
Bunn’s Lounge was no more.
Since the markings at the base of the building had faded as if they’d never been there in the first place, Cole figured the room with the beaded curtain had been similarly wiped away. Before breaking the seal along with a ban from the Health Department, he called the man behind Bunn’s.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“They shut me down!” Christov roared through the cell phone. “When the ambulance came to cart those people away, they see the mud and smell the sickness and see it is that damn flu and they shut me down!”
“I didn’t see anything on the news about it yet,” Cole offered hopefully.
“That’s because there is still investigation,” Christov replied. The angrier he got, the thicker his accent became. “One of the ones that died was the one I…well…you know.”
“The one you shot?”
He was shushed so loudly that Cole thought static was pouring through a bad connection. When Christov spoke again, it was in a harsh whisper.
“Those sick people don’t remember how that man lost his leg,” Christov said. “The cops are blaming it on madness from that flu. They worry about more madness if people hear there was such a big outbreak, so they shut me down and threaten to prosecute me if I incite a panic. Oh dear Lord! I shouldn’t have said outbreak on the phone. I should hang up now.”
“Wait! What about that secret room? We need to use that place.”
“Oh, you need to use that place? I need a new place. All that’s left in Bunn’s is some broken furniture and lots of mud. You need anything else, talk to Tristan. She will know whatever you want. I give you the number where she is.” After rattling off the string of digits, he spat, “You call her. Don’t call me again.”
“Did the cops ask about us? Do they know everything that happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they get to any of your security tapes?” Paige asked.
“Ah-ah,” Christov snapped. “There are no security tapes, understand? I am grateful for you saving my life, so I destroyed my whole office before any of those tapes are seen. After that, I cannot be bothered with you people any longer. I need to scrape together money to open a new club and times are—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cole sighed as he cut the connection. “Times are hard.”
Dialing the new phone number while heading back to the car, he waited through several rings before being connected to a machine. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and told Paige, “The place is called The Emerald. It’s not open for a few more hours.”
“But it’s after six.”
“Fine. You wanted to keep a low profile after that fight, but let’s forget that, drive down there and bust the door in. That shouldn’t draw any attention to us or the nymphs working to pose as employees.”
They took a drive down Lindbergh Boulevard, supposedly looking for stray Mongrels. Although they certainly watched the streets and waited for their scars to burn, Paige was too anxious to pay attention to anything. Cole knew there were plenty of things he could be doing on his laptop, many of which might go a long way to mend some bridges in Seattle, but he saw more use in staring out the Cav’s broken windows on the off chance that they actually found something. Not only did they come up empty, but St. Louis itself seemed tired and worn-out. Traffic moved as if the heat was melting tires to the pavement, and the wind seemed unable to blow without a Mongrel to stir it. Nightfall helped turn the oppressive heat down from a hot, wet slap of stagnant humidity against his face into a lukewarm slap.
“You hungry?” Paige asked.
“For all we know, Pestilence has infected everyone,” he pointed out. “Or, Henry can spread it just by projecting his thoughts or essence or whatever into anyone he chooses.”
“Yeah?”
“And the guy behind it is a Skinner who can not only order Henry around, but fight like nobody I’ve ever seen.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re thinking about food?”
“You know what’s better than a good meal that you eat when you’re really hungry?”
“What?” Cole sighed.
“A snack at the wrong time that has no redeemable qualities whatsoever.” When she caught him looking over at her, Paige asked, “Who wants fried tacos stuffed with mystery meat?”
Half an hour later they were in their hotel room. A bag from Jack in the Box had been ripped open like a gutted deer and a dozen little grease-stained paper envelopes emblazoned with the word TACO lay scattered on the table. Paige sat in a chair with her feet propped upon the edge of the mattress, and Cole hunched over a pile of empty wrappers.
Without bothering to wipe the hot sauce from the corner of her mouth, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed a number. “Hey Rico. It’s me. How are the nymphs coming along?” Rolling her eyes at whatever lewd comment Rico gave her, she asked, “Will they be able to help us or not?”
As she listened to Rico’s report, Cole tore open another taco and went through a very strict ritual. The wrapper was spread open to form a plate. The fried shells were carefully pulled apart so as not to tear the whole thing in half. Then a hot sauce packet was ripped open at one corner and the bright red fluid was evenly distributed among the innards of the taco. The halves were closed and the good times commenced with a first bite at the lowermost corner. No matter what else was going on in the world, that simple process made everything seem okay.
“Forget about my arm,” Paige said. “Have you talked to Daniels?…Uh-huh. Really? What’s that mean?” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the last taco in the sack. When Cole tossed it to her, she tore open a hot sauce packet with her teeth, squirted some into the shell, and ate it straight out of the paper envelope.
“Barbarian,” Cole muttered.
“No, I didn’t seal the hotel room…Why not? Because that’s a bunch of superstitious bullshit, that’s why not. Paranormal is one thing. Supernatural is something too. Magic is bullshit…No, I don’t know how Lancroft teleported, but there’s gotta be an explanation. How long before Tristan is ready to go?…Tomorrow?” She sighed and flexed her right hand until her fingers were almost opening and closing at normal speed. “No. We’re way across town, so you work on that and I’ll check later…Okay. Yeah…Okay. ’Bye.” She snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the bed.
“What did he mean by sealing the room?” Cole asked.
“You remember all that writing on Ned’s walls?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go,” Paige grunted. “It’s the same language that was on the walls of Henry’s room back at the reformatory. Rico still believes all those charms and runes and whatever else can keep evil at bay.”