John Connolly - The Killing Kind

“She cleans your bathroom?” Angel once asked, as if I had told him that Rachel regularly sacrificed goats or played women's golf. “I don't even clean my own bathroom, and I sure as hell ain't gonna clean no stranger's bathroom.”

“I'm not a stranger, Angel,” I explained.

“Hey,” he replied, “when it comes to bathroom stuff, everybody's a stranger.”

In the kitchen, Louis was squatting in front of the fridge, discarding items on the floor. He checked the expiration date on some cold cuts.

“Damn, you buy all this food at auction?”

I wondered, as I called out for a pizza delivery, if agreeing to let them inside my door had been such a good idea after all.

“Who is this guy?” asked Louis. We were sitting at my kitchen table while we waited for our food to arrive, discussing the shard of clay left by Paragon's killer.

“Al Z told me he calls himself the Golem, and Epstein's father confirmed it. That's all I know. You ever hear of him?”

He shook his head. “Means he's very good, or an amateur. Still, cool name.”

“Yeah, why can't you have a cool name like that?” asked Angel.

“Hey, Louis is a cool name.”

“Only if you're the king of France. You think he got much out of Paragon?”

“You saw what he did to him,” I replied. “Paragon probably told him everything he could remember since grade school.”

“So this Golem knows more than us?”

“Everybody knows more than us.”

There came the sound of a car pulling up out front.

“Pizza boy,” I said.

Nobody else at the table made a sudden move for his wallet.

“Guess dinner's on me, then.”

I went to the door and took the two pizza boxes from the kid. As I gave him the cash, he spoke quietly to me.

“I don't want to worry you, man, but you got a guy over there watching your house.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Over my right shoulder, in the trees.”

“Don't look at him,” I said. “Just drive away.” I tipped him an extra ten, then glanced casually to my left as his car pulled away. Among the trees, something pale hung unmoving in the darkness: a man's face. I stepped back into the hallway, drew my gun, and called back quietly: “Boys, we've got company.”

I walked out to the porch, the gun at my side. Angel was behind me, his Glock in his hand. Louis was nowhere to be seen, but I guessed that he was already moving around the back of the house. I stepped slowly from the porch and moved forward, the gun held low, until I got a clearer view of the watcher. I saw his hairless scalp and face, his pale skin, his thin mouth and dark eyes. His hands were held slightly out from his sides, so that I could see they were empty. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black tie under a long black overcoat. In every respect, he resembled the man who had taken out Lester Bargus and probably Carter Paragon as well.

“Who is he?” hissed Angel. “I'm guessing he's the guy with the cool name.”

I leaned down, placed my gun on the ground, and walked toward him.

“Bird,” said Angel, a note of warning in his voice.

“He's on my property,” I said, “and he knows it's mine. Whatever he has to say, he's here to say it to my face.”

“Then keep to the right,” he said. “He makes a move, maybe I can take him out before he kills you.”

“Thanks. I feel safer already.” But I kept to the right as I had been told.

When I was within a few feet of him he raised one white hand. “That's close enough, Mr. Parker.” The accent was unusual, with odd, European inflections. “I suggest that your friend also halt his advance through the woods. I'm not going to harm anyone here.”

I paused, then called out. “Louis, it's okay.”

From about fifteen feet to my left, a dark figure separated itself from the trees, his gun held steadily in front of him. Louis didn't lower the gun, but he didn't make any further move either.

Up close, the man was startlingly white, with no color to his lips or his cheeks and only the faintest of dark smudges beneath his eyes. They were a washed-out blue, almost lifeless. Combined with the absence of hair on his face, they made him appear like a wax model that had been left incomplete. His scalp was deeply scarred, as were the places where his eyebrows should have been. I noticed one other thing about him: his face was dry and flaking in places, like a reptile discarding its skin.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I think you know who I am.”

“Golem,” I said.

I expected him to nod, maybe even to smile, but he did neither. Instead he said: “The Golem is a myth, Mr. Parker. Do you believe in myths?”

“I used to discount them, but I've been proved wrong in the past. Now I try to keep an open mind. Why did you kill Carter Paragon?”

“The question is really, Why did I hurt Carter Paragon? For the same reason that you broke into his house an hour later: to find out what he knew. His death was a consequence, not an intention.”

“You killed Lester Bargus too.”

“Mr. Bargus supplied weapons to evil men,” he responded simply. “But no longer.”

“He was unarmed.”

“So was the rabbi.” He pronounced it “rebbe.”

“An eye for an eye,” I said.

“Perhaps. I know something of you too, Mr. Parker. I don't believe you are in a position to pass judgment on me.”

“I'm not judging you. Lester Bargus was a lowlife and nobody will miss him, but I've found in the past that people willing to strike at unarmed men tend not to be too particular about whom they kill. That concerns me.”

“Once again, I do not plan to harm you or your friends. The man I want calls himself Pudd. You know of him, I think.”

“I've encountered him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

For the first time, a note of eagerness crept into his voice. I guessed that either Paragon had died before he could tell all, or, more interestingly, that he had been unable to tell his killer where Pudd had his lair because he didn't know.

“Not yet. I intend to find out, though.”

“Your intentions and mine may conflict, then.”

“Maybe we both have similar aims,” I suggested. “No, we do not. Yours is a moral crusade. Those who engaged me for this task have a more specific purpose.”

“Revenge?”

“I do only what is required of me,” he said. “No more.” His voice was deep and the words seemed to echo inside him, as if he were a hollow man without substance, only form. “I came to give you a message. Do not come between me and this man. If you do, I will be forced to take action against you.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

I didn't even see him move. One moment he was in front of me, his hands empty, the next he was close by my side and a small center-fire derringer was at my throat, the twin barrels pointing upward to my brain. From out of the darkness, the Beamshot laser sight on Louis's gun projected its light as he tried to find a clear shot, but my body and the darkness of the Golem's clothes shielded him from both Louis and Angel.

“Tell them to back off, Mr. Parker,” he whispered, his head behind mine. “I want you to walk me to my car. You have two seconds.”

I shouted out the warning immediately, and Louis killed the beam. The Golem pulled me back through the trees, guiding my footsteps. The sleeve of his overcoat had rolled up on his arm and I could see the first of the small blue numbers etched on his skin. He was a concentration camp survivor. I also saw that he had no fingerprints. Instead, the skin and flesh appeared to have collapsed inward, creating a puckered, indented scar at the tip of each finger. Fire, I thought. It was fire that did this to him; fire that scarred his head, fire that took away his fingerprints.