Page 104

Candy starts after him.

“Let him go,” says Julie. “We’re not going to get anything more out of a frightened stoner right now. Besides, we can find him if we need more later.”

Vincent is by the entrance, staring in the direction where Varg ran. He goes down the stairs and follows the kid’s trail. We follow him a few yards past more buildings. Beyond a stand of thirsty trees is a set of steep concrete stairs going a ­couple of hundred feet, all the way up the canyon wall. Varg is already a quarter of the way up.

“That’s the way I left,” says Vincent. “I remember climbing and climbing.”

I look at him. Vincent isn’t a big guy. I try to imagine anyone climbing all those steps with a hole the size of a shotgun blast in their chest. I couldn’t do it. But this scrawny bastard did. And fucked up as he was, he tracked me down all the way in Hollywood. Vincent has more brains and bigger balls than I imagined. Damn. Now I actually want to help the prick. But it’s nice that I’m being paid to do it.

I wave a bee away from my face. Goddamn nature. All it wants to do is hitch a rid

e, kill you, or sting you. Sometimes all at once.

“Are we done here?” I say to Julie. “I need a drink and a tick bath.”

“Yes. We’re done.”

She keeps looking at Varg and the stairs. I start back the way we came.

“If you want to go after him, be my guest, but I’m not climbing that. Fire me if you want, but I’m going this way and cranking the air conditioner in the Crown Vic all the way to Ice Age.”

Julie nods.

“Let’s head back,” she says, coming after me.

As we walk, she turns to me.

“Good job back there, Stark. You were menacing, but didn’t try to shoot anyone. A big step up for you.”

“Thanks. I’m happy to just be part of the team.”

“That’s why it pains me to tell you.”

“What?”

“The air-­conditioning in the Crown Vic doesn’t work.”

I really hate this job.

CANDY AND I go to Bamboo House for a few drinks after work and have a ­couple of more at home. Kasabian is binge-­watching Mulholland Drive, transfixed by Naomi Watts’s cheekbones. Vincent went to his room after we got back from Murphy Ranch and I haven’t seen him since. My guess is he popped a ­couple of pills and passed out. Can’t say I blame him. Still, I might have to steal the pill bottle from him sometime when he’s not looking.

I fall asleep early, still bruised and battered by my encounter with trees and grass. Now I remember why I don’t like to leave Hollywood. The closest thing to nature we have here are the tofu joints out past La Brea Avenue, and I can get over the trauma of seeing them with a plate of carnitas and frijoles.

In my dreams, I’m back at Murphy Ranch lying, like Vincent, in the bloody center of the circle. When Mason Faim sent me to Hell, it was through a magic circle. I use them all the time when I’m doing high-­level hoodoo.

My life is full of circles. For all the batshit craziness of my first trip back from Hell—­the Drifters, ghosts, ghouls, cops, Hellions, and gods—­it was really about finally getting clear of Mason. Now Mason is dead for good, a sacrifice to a mob of angry old deities. Maybe I’m starting a new circle. If this is the beginning, I’m not sure I want to see where it ends.

I used to dream about being back in the arena in Hell. Now I dream about being stuck in traffic in the Crown Vic, my new Hell on Earth. Even when I was a Hellion slave, I never felt as trapped as I do now that I’ve lost the Room of Thirteen Doors. I keep trying to find angles. Ways to get it back. Ways to convince myself that it’s okay to open it and go inside. That another universe won’t rush out to devour this one, and that the old gods, the Angra Om Ya, are dead and gone forever. But I know it’s not going to happen. I can’t ever open the door again. The Room is gone for good. But I can’t live without it. I can’t stay planted on the ground like a goddamn beet farmer, shuffling my way through the dirt and mud forever. There has to be an angle I haven’t figured out yet. Something I can steal or buy or trade for what will let me shadow-­walk again. The price will be high, but I’ll pay it. I need to know I can walk the universe again and that, in the end, there’s one safe refuge that’s mine and mine alone. Even Candy would be safe and she could wear her own face again. But I don’t even know where to begin looking. Well, I do. But I don’t want to go there. There are parts of L.A. stained enough with blood, bile, and misery that even I don’t want to deal with them.

Just keep cool. See where you land. If you work shit out for Vincent, he’s going to owe you. Death can go anywhere at any time he wants. Maybe he knows a trick or two he can pass on, right?

No. That’s not the kind of luck I have.

I dream about the White Light Legion and a blond Valkyrie ripping my heart out. It almost means something and I can almost see Sigrun’s face. They put my heart in a jar and carry it home. Is it a trophy? An offering? Or just Rover’s dinner?

My chest hurts. I’m sweating. I’m back on Wonderland Avenue. Every door to every home is open. Blood trails smear across the welcome mats and driveways, down the street, and into the dark. I see the brand on Vincent’s arm and his knife in my chest. I want to choke Tamerlan until all this madness makes sense. I want the Room, but never to have gone to Hell. It’s mostly childish noise, I know, but pieces of it are worthwhile. If I get one or two more, maybe things will start falling into place.

I wake up and get out of bed. In the kitchen I start to pour myself a drink. Instead, I go and wash the sweat off my face and sit on the couch. Someone left the Blu-­ray player on pause. I hit the play button and Nightbreed starts playing. It’s a strangely comforting movie. Monsters living with monsters in a world built just for monsters. Of course, civilians eventually come along and fuck it all up, the way they fuck everything up. I watch for a few minutes, until the cops head out to hammer Jesus and good clean American living into the monsters. Then it gets depressing, so I turn it off. I go to the window and smoke a cigarette. I wish I hadn’t given Vincent’s knife to Julie. I’d like to see it and feel it in my hand. Now that I’ve seen where it was used, maybe it would mean more.