David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

No. The mausoleum felt empty. But how could that be? Quinn had seen him go in.

Pulling his revolver, he moved out from behind the altar and crept around, searching. The place was empty. But that was imposs—

A sudden flurry of movement stunned him—someone moving with lightning speed, hurtling toward him. Quinn spun away but something cold and metallic rammed none too gently against the base of his skull.

“Another move and your brain stem comes out your nose.”

The pistol’s muzzle was positioned to do just what the intruder said, so Quinn froze, cursing himself. He’d played just about every role known to man in life, from idiot hero-addict to cop and now investigator of the unusual—and he wasn’t accustomed to being the one taken by surprise.

But, hell, he’d also learned how to talk and stall, how to retreat to fight again—and this seemed the right time for that.

“Okay, okay.”

The other man snickered as he removed Quinn’s revolver from his grasp. “Some hit man.”

The words stunned Quinn. “What—what did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You called me a hit man.”

“On your knees. Gotta little hog-tying to do.”

“Wait just a goddamn minute. Who do you think I am?”

“That lady de Medici’s boy. Now on your knees or I put your own slugs through them.”

Madame de Medici? Quinn thought. He thinks I work for her?

“I’ve had no contact with the madame. Ever. I don’t know where you got your information, but I was hired by the owner, Jules Chastain.”

He could feel the other man stiffen behind him.

“Bullshit.”

“No, true shit.” He spoke quickly. “Reach into my jacket pocket for my ID. My name is Michael Quinn. I’m a private investigator in New Orleans.”

The muzzle pressed harder against his skull as the man reached around, found the folder, and removed it.

“It’s too dark to read in here anyway.”

“You mean you came without a flashlight?”

“No.” His tone was annoyed. “It’s just that my hands are full at the moment.”

He shoved Quinn toward the chairs. “Have a seat while I figure this out.”

Quinn did as he was told. The guy seemed dangerous but Quinn felt no fear of him. Odd. It was occurring to him that they’d both been taken—he hoped it was occurring to the other guy, too.

A flashlight glowed and Quinn caught a glimpse of some nondescript features, then the beam shone straight into his face.

“This could be fake.”

Quinn held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Yeah, it could be, but it’s not.”

The ID folder sailed through the light and landed in his lap.

“I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. Why did Chastain hire you?”

“To protect this place from a thief he was tipped was coming. That would be you, I guess.”

Quinn winced inwardly. It had seemed like a nothing job; he hadn’t even told Danni about it. Chastain was rich; he and Danni often needed hefty sums in their line of work: pulling in a nice, up-front paycheck for a few hours of work while she was busy with a celebration ceremony had seemed like a damned good idea.

He should have known there’d be a catch—like nearly getting his fool self killed.

The other man barked a bitter laugh. “No, I’m no thief. Chastain hired me to retrieve a ring he’d hidden here.”

“ What? ”

“Yeah. What the fuck?”

The silence lengthened between them until Quinn finally said, “Can I have my pistol back?”

“It’s a revolver, and a revolver is not strictly a pistol.”

Quinn had to laugh. “You mean I let a gun nerd get the drop on me?”

“Facts is facts, and no, you can’t have it back. At least not yet.”

“Not yet is okay. But how the hell did you get the drop on me?”

“Chastain told me about the rear door. I didn’t trust him, so I went in the front and out the back, then watched the place. I saw you go in the back so I followed.”

Quinn had to admit that was pretty clever, even as he kicked himself for falling for it. He’d seen how the vines at the rear had been disturbed but he’d come in anyway.

“You do realize we’ve been set up, right?”

Another short, sharp laugh. “Ya think? I knew this smelled bad.”

“You don’t sound like a local.”

“Got that right. Chastain told me to be prepared for ‘deadly force.’ He’d made it sound defensive. Now I’m thinking he wanted me to use it. What’s he got against you?”

“Nothing that I know of. Barely know the man. But I do know him better than you. I’m local. You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Jack.”

“ ‘Jack’ what?”

“Just Jack’ll do. Seems like I was supposed to kill you.”

Quinn’s muscles tightened, ready to leap. He’d actually been declared ‘dead’ once already. He didn’t fear death.

But he sure as hell didn’t want to die.

“And?” he asked flatly.

A shrug. “Don’t see any reason to.” Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Quinn. “This is supposedly where Chastain hid the ring I was supposed to bring him. Suppose it’s bogus, too.”

Quinn looked over the diagram and the instructions.

“Don’t you want a light?” Jack said.

“Don’t need it.” Quinn studied the diagram. “There should be a jagged little crack in the bottom of the first vault—the oldest—according to this.”

He ignored the fact that the other man had a gun while he still didn’t, and chanced turning his back on him to head to the rear of the vault and hunker down. He looked at the diagram again and stuck his hand into the jagged crack on the lowest shelf—that of Antioch Chastain, founder of the clan. As the diagram suggested, his hand hit a box; a wooden box. He withdrew it—along with a mass of spiderwebs and bone dust. He looked at Jack, and then opened the box.

“Empty,” they announced together.

“Figures,” Jack said. “The whole thing was a setup.”

“But why? He wanted us both here for a reason.”

“Why here? And by the way, haven’t you folks heard of graves ?”

Quinn laughed. “The water table’s too high. And, actually, the cemeteries were conceived during the Spanish rule, and their design is according to the custom of the time. Good custom here—bury someone and you could find their coffin floating along in the next heavy rain.”

“So you pigeonhole them in these little buildings? Doesn’t it get ripe after a while? And what happens when you run out of shelves?”

“Here in Louisiana, the rule is ‘a year and a day.’ The heat is so great that bodies mostly cremate in that time. These tombs are like ovens. Families shovel the bits and bones of the remains of one loved one to a mutual ‘holding’ section at the foot of the shelf so that another family member can find his or her resting place for a year and a day—or until the shelf is needed again.”

“That’s gross. What country is this?”

“The United States of Louisiana. We have our own way of doing things.”

“I guess you do.” Jack looked around. “Great setting for a horror film, though. Hey, you think that’s why he got us here—to film us fighting? Some sick YouTube snuff vid?”

“You think he’s hidden a camera?”

“He didn’t fly me down from New York so we could have this nice little chat. Gotta be some reason he put us both here.”

Quinn didn’t see a camera anywhere, but memory of the loose tile flashed through his head. “It’s probably nothing, but—”

He ducked behind the altar and pried up the tile. Only dirt beneath it. But soft dirt.

He dug and struck metal within the first inch. He worked his fingers around it and came up with a bracelet made of strange metal and carved with even stranger designs. A green stone the size of a dime was embedded in its center. It looked familiar.