He felt his pulse slow, his heart stop pounding, his mind clear a little.
But as calm as he became, he still felt deeply that he needed to see Palermo die. Kendul, too, if at all possible, though that was secondary. One of the two was enough, and was likely all he could hope for. He didn’t give a flying fuck if the Inferne Cutis was exposed. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the mystery was ever solved – for him or anyone else. Palermo would die. Once that was done, he wouldn’t care what happened to himself. His goal would be achieved.
He paid cash for his room, keyed the door, chucked his duffle on the bed, and immediately headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he felt as though the water had swept the cobwebs from his head. A plan formed in his mind. He saw it step by step, was certain it would work. And after, while Palermo’s body cooled in a puddle of his own blood, maybe Krebosche would run, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just stand there, staring at the body, hoping that wherever Adelina and Marla were – if they were anywhere at all – they could see what he’d done for them. See what they’d meant to him. What he was willing to do to make things right again. As right as they could be, anyway.
Krebosche’s mind turned specifically to Adelina. The closest thing to a girlfriend he’d ever had. He had no doubt she was dead. He’d followed the men as they drove her to the outskirts of the city, shuffled her out, and led her into a rundown house. Probably filled with crackheads and God knows who else, he remembered thinking.
All that he was certain of now was that she went into that house under her own power – yes, being led, but upright and alive – and never came out before it was destroyed. Krebosche had been frozen in place. Had no idea how to react, what to do, who to call. He remembered crying, beating his steering wheel. But within minutes, even those strong emotions, even grief that powerful, began to wane. He felt it coming out of his pores like sweat. For some reason he was still unsure of, he had the presence of mind to write down what he could remember from the night. He scribbled it furiously, breaking the nib of his pencil halfway through, hoping to Christ he had another one with which to finish up.
Now, Krebosche got dressed, finished formulating his plan in his head, then remembered he didn’t have a knife with which to cut Palermo’s throat – and he assumed, as with all the other Runners, it needed to be a knife or a sword, since their bodies apparently just gobbled up bullets. It didn’t have to be anything special, though; in fact, the less special the better.
Why waste a good knife cutting such a filthy throat?
He stuffed his gun into his waistband nonetheless – if he did decide to carry on once he’d sliced the pig’s neck open, he’d want to at least put up a fight, take out a few more of Palermo’s men before he died. He knew he wouldn’t live long enough to take down more than two, maybe three of them, tops, but better than none.
Some distant part of him tried to argue he was also avenging Carl Duncan’s and his uncle Gerald’s deaths, but those internal arguments held about as much water as a sieve in his new state of mind. He was functioning on all cylinders now. No more time for bullshit.
This was for Adelina. For Marla.
And this was for him.
He put on his jacket, walked out of his motel room, spotted a Walmart across the street, headed toward it. Once inside, he made his way to the kitchen section, found the biggest knife he could. Bought it.
Then the thought struck him – with a certain amount of glee, he had to admit – that maybe hollow-point bullets would do more damage to anyone he might need to deal with after he cut Palermo’s head off. Those might even kill a Runner if fired from point-blank range at the head or neck. He turned toward the ammunition section, bought some dum-dum bullets, then left the store, went back to his motel room. Undressed, went to bed.
He slept for two hours, setting his alarm for 3 a.m. It woke him in the middle of a dream in which he was covered entirely in blood. Screaming. Pounding his fists against something. It was only upon waking, getting dressed, securing the knife down the side of his boot, the gun in his waistband, and leaving the motel room again that he realized it wasn’t Palermo’s blood, as he’d first assumed. It was Adelina’s.
And the thing upon which he pounded his fists was enormous.
Made entirely of steel.
* * *