Marcton nodded, shivered, and bounded out the door, slamming it behind him.
Palermo bent to look out the window, watched Marcton plod up the path toward the warehouse – careful, of course, not to step in any of the footprints already made. He watched Marcton knock at the warehouse door, shift from side to side as he waited for it to open. Cleve’s bulky frame filled the doorway, then Marcton was in.
Palermo looked back at his guest, sighed, pulled out his own chair at the desk, and plopped himself in it. The two faced each other. Old friends, occasional enemies.
“What are you doing here?” Palermo said. “Why now? Why not just send one of your boys?”
“Want something done right, do it yourself,” Kendul said. James Kendul was fairly short like Palermo, but built thinner, sleeker. Kendul’s crisp blue eyes rarely left the person to whom he was talking. “You know that as well as I do, Edward.”
Palermo nodded. “So why now?”
“You know why.”
“Because one of your boys got killed in a Run? Goddamnit, it happens; not very often, but you know it happens, so–”
“One of mine saw him, Edward. Near the hospital this side of the tracks. Luckily, one loyal to me, one I can trust not to say anything about it to the others.”
Palermo thought of carrying on with the ignorance act, but knew it would be pointless. Kendul knew. Kyllo’d been seen.
“How long were you going to wait before telling me, Edward?” Kendul asked, anger rising. “How fucking long?”
“We knew it would happen again one day,” Palermo said, resigned, unable to look his old friend directly in the eyes. Palermo put his hand inside the coat pocket where he’d stuffed the picture of the girl. His fingers stroked the burnt edges of the photograph. “I just always wished it wouldn’t be on my watch.”
Kendul nodded, shifted his weight in his chair, glanced out the caboose window at the warehouse. The light from the top windows made the snow glow a dirty yellow. “We have to find him,” he said, brushing his hands once down the creases in his pants. “See exactly what he’s become. We on the same page here?”
Palermo pulled his hand from his pocket, gestured vaguely at nothing. “Of course.” Kendul usually made him a bit nervous – the same way Palermo made other people nervous – but he was determined not to show it. At least determined to try not to show it.
“You OK, Palermo?” Kendul asked, shifting the full weight of his gaze onto Edward. “You seem… distracted. More distracted than usual, I mean.”
Always with the little digs, Palermo thought.
“No, I’m fine, Kendul. We dealt with this situation before, and we’ll do it again. Let’s not make it worse than it already is by getting at each other’s throats. It’s wholly unnecessary and, frankly, beneath us.”
Kendul sniffed again. Twice this time. Looked away.
“I’ll be in touch,” Kendul said, then stood up, extended his hand. Palermo stood and shook it. Kendul moved toward the door. “And Edward,” he added, opening the door, letting the screaming night inside, “see what your weather visions have to say about this. I’m open to taking advice from any source willing to offer it up.”
Kendul stepped outside, his floor-length weathered brown trench brushing the lip of the doorframe. He turned around. Squinted against the snow and wind. “What’s his name, anyway, Edward? Not that it matters. But what’s his name?”
“Henry Kyllo,” Palermo said, unsure whether his voice had been loud enough to carry over the storm. “Been with us some time now. I had no idea how close he was, though.”
“Kyllo,” Kendul repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue.
Palermo nodded. More snow to sprinkle his elephants, more cold to freeze his photographs into place.
Kendul slammed the door hard, stomped down the caboose steps, crunched across the lot toward the warehouse’s back door.
Palermo rolled up his coat sleeves, caressed the tattoos there, brushed his fingers lightly over the symbols. They felt hot, burning beneath his skin. He made sure the photograph of the girl was still in his pocket, then put on his boots, wrapped a dark blue wool scarf around his neck, put his collar up, and stepped out into the storm.
* * *
“Good?” Cleve grunted as he opened the warehouse door to let Marcton back inside. But Marcton’s gaze was locked elsewhere, toward the street.
“Yo, dingus, wake up,” Cleve said. “I’m talkin’ to ya.”
“Yeah,” Marcton said, slowing down, squinting, still looking toward the street. “Fine.”
Cleve followed his gaze. “What are you so enthralled by, dummy? I swear to Christ you get more spaced out with every passing day.
Marcton’s expression changed, then. He went stonefaced. As he pushed past Cleve, stepping inside the warehouse, he said simply, “Company. Follow me.”
* * *