Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

There was a sudden disturbance at the center of the circle as people took a step back, and the child screamed again, and my heartbeat began to pound in my ears. Somebody laughed. It took all my willpower to ignore the screams and the laugh, and count the people.

Mrs. Brussels was the first one I spotted, still in her trendy wrinkled linen. She had her back to me. The children were probably in the middle of the circle, since I couldn't see them. I counted five grim giants on the circle's perimeter. That was one more than we had counted, so someone had arrived before we had. As far as I was concerned, that cinched it. We were outweighed, even with the Mountain in reserve.

I grabbed the edge of the transom window with one hand and leaned down to tap the Mountain's wrist with the other. At the signal he crouched, and I stepped onto solid ground. ‘There's another one,” I whispered. “That makes five. I don't know how many kids. I didn't see the little one, but I think he's hurting a kid.” Another shrill cry shivered through the window, and the features on the Mountain's face squeezed together, tighter than the knot at the end of a sausage. He started to move toward the door, and I put a hand on his arm.

“It's too many,” I said. “We've got to call the cops.”

“Forget it, asshole,” Max Bruner said from behind me. “They're already here.”

T he Mountain heaved himself around with such force that he grunted. Then he froze.

Framed in the pale pool of light falling from the transom window, Bruner's usual impeccable wardrobe looked damp. He made up for it, however, with the perfect accessory: a nickel-plated automatic aimed at the center of my stomach. Behind him, looking much wetter and more wrinkled, was a man who seemed only marginally smaller than Ship Rock, New Mexico. The man also held an automatic. His was pointed at the Mountain.

“Hello, Fat Boy,” Bruner said to the Mountain. “You should've stuck with the burgers.” To me he said, “I really didn't think you'd get this far.”

“Max,” I said, swallowing my heart to clear speaking room, “you shouldn't be out in this weather. You'll ruin your creases. Your dry cleaner is going to be furious.”

He moved the barrel of the bright little gun in a tight circle. The top of the circle was my nipples and the bottom was my groin. Not much of a choice.

“Pissant,” he said. He shook his head. “I tried to tell you. I tried to get you out of it.”

“I've always had a hard time with advice,” I said.

Bruner's mouth twitched into a straight line that made his upper lip disappear. “Fatal flaw,” he said. “And contagious, too. You're going to take Tubbo here with you.”

“You snotrag,” the Mountain said between heavy breaths. “You're supposed to help them.”

Ship Rock took a step forward and raised his gun so that it pointed at the Mountain's forehead.

“Help them what?” Bruner said, putting a restraining hand on Ship Rock's forearm. Ship Rock stopped like he'd been freeze-framed. “Help them go home to the people who chased them away in the first place? Home to all those hugs and kisses and sweet words? This may be hard for you to believe, Tubbo, but the people who write Hallmark cards aren't in charge of the universe.”

The child inside shrilled again. At the top of its arc the sound tore itself into confetti and mingled with the drizzle settling around us.

“Neither are you, snotrag,” I said, borrowing the Mountain's phrase. It had seemed to nettle Bruner.

“Over the long haul,” Bruner said, “over the millennia, probably not. But what you're looking at here,” he added, lifting his arm straight in front of him and training the silvery automatic directly into my left eye, “is the present.”

The flow of time slowed to a trickle. I could feel a bead of cold moisture make its way down my cheek in agonizing slow motion. There was an itch in the center of my back. I knew that the moment I moved the smallest muscle I was dead. The hole in the end of the automatic looked wider than the Milky Way.

“The question,” I said through rigid lips as the Mountain wheezed and snuffled beside me, “is what brought you out from under the plumbing?”

Bruner lowered the gun with a nasty little grin that told me he knew he'd scared the shit out of me. He kept it aimed casually at my middle. “Good question,” he said. “You should have been a cop.”

I wiped the moisture from my cheek and found that it was blood from the scratch on my forehead. “So should you,” I said.

Ship Rock bared puffy gums and let out a truncated bark. It could have been a laugh or a particularly vehement scoff. His gun stayed trained on the Mountain.

“This is Sergeant Belson,” Bruner said by way of introduction. “Sergeant Belson thinks you're funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, wiping the blood on my pants. My hand brushed over the hard barrel of the gun, and I immediately let my arms dangle at my sides. “Well, it's hard to get good help.”

“Hey,” Belson said. It was probably the longest sentence he'd spoken in a week. He was looking at me instead of the Mountain. Belson could be distracted. That was something to remember. Not much, but something.

Bruner shook his head again, pityingly this time. “You're not going to rattle me. You sure shook up Doris, though. It was a cute stunt, but any idiot would have known it was a setup.”

“Doris?” I said. “You mean the Wicked Witch of the West has a first name? What'd you do, Max, slip into the Mister's used condoms? Were they still warm?”

“Keep trying if it makes you happy,” Bruner said. “The Mister, as you call him, had to keep poking the merchandise. I handled the investigation on the Mister, which maybe you already know.” I certainly hadn't. “He had a very sweet thing going. If he hadn't had his heart attack when he did, I would’ve attacked his heart for him. Now, let's go inside.” He gave his gun a tiny jerk toward the door, and I turned obediently, hearing the Mountain snap into step behind me. To draw attention away from the gun jammed into the front of my pants, I laced my fingers together and put my hands on top of my head.

“So that's why you're here, Max? You're the new Mister? You figured the pictures on the computer were a draw play?” I asked, keeping as close to the wall of the warehouse as possible. It was darker there. We were about a third of the way to the door.

“Doris panicked,” he said, full of male superiority. “Keep walking. Your little parlor trick got her all superstitious. She barely had the brains to call me. It was an obvious spook trick, and I was working on my list of possible spooks. When she described you and your adorable little ward, the list shrank to one. I didn't know about Tubbo, here, but I'd already decided that she should get the meat together and Belson and I should hang around and watch you show up. Tubbo just makes it better.”

We rounded the corner. The door was only paces away.

“Why does he make it better?”

“He'll cook slower,” Belson said in the resonant voice of someone who uses his skull mainly as an echo chamber. Then he barked again.

“Shut up,” Bruner said.

“The sergeant has something on his mind,” I said, “and it must be an exciting occasion for him. If you don't let him talk, he could have a stroke. There must be some blood pressure up there.” I had slowed considerably, and the Mountain bumped up against me. I could smell the sour sweat of fear coming from him.

“Accelerate, please,” Bruner said. “If you keep walking, I'll explain. Otherwise, I shoot you here, and not to kill. A man who's been gut-shot can live long enough to burn to death.”