The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [122]
The body felt slight, feathery; he couldn't figure where she stored all that strength. Didn't matter: Meat, that was all she was now. He was an artist who worked in meat and this was his new canvas. His stimulation growing again after their little set-to at the thought of the fun to come.
Playtime; everyone come out and play. The Voices happy, caressing, pleased with his accomplishment.
"Hey! You there!"
Dante looked up. Shit! People running toward him, not fifty yards off: men, shadows tall against the buildings, at least three of them, maybe more. He scurried the meat into the cover of the alley, quickly running through his options.
"You! Stop there!"
He didn't need the Voices to make this decision; he dropped the body and ran as fast as he could. Whoever these men were, they hadn't seen him clearly; hard to give up a kill, all that legwork, but there would be other days and fresher meat, better than this. Heard footsteps enter the alley behind him as he turned into the street; at least one, maybe two men following, but he knew every building on every block, every doorway, window, twist and turn, part of his painstaking preparation: They'd never catch him now.
He turned two more corners, ran through an empty shotgun flat, dropped into another alley, pulled into the shadows of a doorway, and paused against the brick, motionless and alert; the knife appeared in his hand, broad and glistening. If anyone followed him there, they'd be smiling with their necks. He heard footsteps running past the alley, voices calling out to each other, doubling back, then receding. He waited ten minutes more than he needed to, then sheathed the knife; the way clear to home from here. They'd missed him.
What was that? Unmistakable: the hammer of a Colt revolver cocking right next to his head; the sharp poke of its barrel against his temple.
"Don't move, Mr. Scruggs," said a smooth voice in his ear. "I don't wish to shoot you after all the effort we've put into meeting you. Consider me your friend. Do you understand?"
The voice had an accent; what was it? German?
"Uh-huh."
"Good. You may turn your head now."
The voice definitely German; he'd commanded soldiers in his outfit, immigrants, sounded just like this fella. Dante glanced at the man with his good eye as he turned; he looked young, about his own age, tall, thick blond hair. Bright blue eyes. Big through the shoulders. Sharp looking; good suit. Was this one of the men who'd been after him? Dante didn't think so; this dude wasn't even breathing hard.
"What do you want, mister?" asked Dante finally.
Still holding the Colt to him, the man slid the nose of the barrel along Dante's forehead, down to his blank eye socket, where it rested. Slight smile on his lips. "You may call me Frederick."
"What do you want, Frederick?"
"Why, I want to help you, Mr. Scruggs."
"Help me? How's that?"
"Let me begin by saying I am an admirer of your work: I want to help you do your work."
"What do you know about it?"
"We have had our eye on you for some time now, Mr. Scruggs. And we have been most interested watching you advance in your ... career."
"You have?"
"Oh yes. We take a great interest in the sort of work you do. And I must tell you, we like what we see. We like it very much."
"If you help me, like you say ... what do you get out of it?"
"That is a fair question, Mr. Scruggs, and it has a simple answer: I will help you ... because I want you to help me."
"How can I help you?"
"In ways you cannot possibly imagine. Why don't you come with me now, so we can ... talk it over."
Something dark and insinuating and frightfully amused in Frederick's light eyes. The Voices weighed in: We like this one. Dante surprised: Unusual for Them to trust anybody he'd ever met so quickly. But he couldn't