It felt like there would always be snow now. It had waxed and waned over the past few days, but it seemed to Krebosche that it had never actually stopped. It was only due to the temperature being fairly warm that it hadn’t piled up to epic proportions. As Krebosche drove through the darkened streets, he imagined being suffocated under a mountain of snow. The thought appealed to him. He enjoyed the idea of that kind of peace, away from the noise on the streets, and in his head. It comforted him, calmed him.
He barely passed anyone on his way to the street where he planned to park, a few blocks away from the warehouse. He knew security would be tight, so getting too close would be a huge mistake.
All of this is a huge fucking mistake, he thought. But he was committed now. He felt that any choice in the matter had long since vanished. The only way through the situation was down. And down further still.
I’m about to try to cut a man’s head off with something not much better than a bread knife. What a mess that’s going to make. But the thought pleased him. He pictured the skin coming away in chunks as he sawed through. Blood pumping out. Drenching everything.
Tires crunching snow and gravel, he pulled his car into a dirt lot next to an abandoned building. Parked, got out. Surveyed the scene. From where he stood, he could just see the top of the warehouse. He’d need to be closer to know whether or not any lights were still on. But he supposed that was his own fault, since he, Duncan, and Gerald, were the ones who caused the breach.
As he headed toward the rear of the warehouse, where the train tracks and Palermo’s caboose were located, he had to fight to keep his orientation. The streets – especially in the endlessly falling snow – all looked the same, and even when he approached a corner, the text of the street signs would appear blurred, swimming on the signposts. He had to blink and wipe his eyes, refocus, look down at his notebook, run the street names in his mind over and again. He resorted to repeating them out loud under his breath.
Around one more corner, and there was the field and the warehouse. The caboose sat like a crouching animal in the darkness.
No lights on anywhere.
Krebosche touched the knife where he’d tucked it down his boot, then the gun in his waistband. Felt his heart thudding in his chest. For all his thoughts about not caring anymore, he certainly looked like someone about to do something unwise, and was scared to death of the consequences.
Best approach is just straight up the tracks, right? Of course, there’d be a guard at the door of the caboose, maybe two. Especially now. And probably at least a couple on the roof of the warehouse. What would make this all the more difficult was the crunching snow. There was no way to be completely stealthy.
Unless you crawl on your belly, idiot.
So he’d crawl on his belly, slither along beside the tracks, then just pop up and attack everyone? Brilliant plan. This was beginning to look more and more unlikely.
A distraction of some kind would be nice. Maybe another fool like Duncan to go die for me. The thought made even Krebosche wince – and he’d thought he was beyond pangs of conscience – at least for Duncan.
He tucked himself behind the wall of the last building before the field opened up and cover was gone. Once he left the safety of this wall, he’d be entirely exposed. Just the open field and the train tracks between him and the caboose.
He glanced up at the sky. At least the clouds were cooperating. Can’t have a fuckton of snow without clouds, he thought. So moonlight would be at a minimum. Maybe just the occasional break in cloud cover to expose his movements.
He breathed deeply twice, three times. Decided on the belly slither. He laid himself down flat, poked his head around the side of the wall. No movement at the warehouse or the caboose. No sound. Just steadily falling snowflakes and his heart threatening to burst from his throat. Maybe the guards were hidden from view because they were afraid of getting picked off by a sniper. He didn’t know. But it was now or never. He felt his resolve weakening by the second.
Just as he was about to work his way out, a voice from behind startled him.
“Looking for someone?” Palermo said.
T W E L V E
“He would have told someone,” Henry said. “If he hadn’t already.”
Faye didn’t respond. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pulped skull of her co-worker. Blood pooled around Steve’s body, and the clumps that had sprayed through Henry’s fingers crawled slowly down the wall like snails.
Finally: “You don’t know that. You didn’t know that.”
“He wanted to take a picture, Faye.”
“So he deserved to die for that?”
Henry was silent. At some point, tears had sprung from his eyes, grown cold now on his face. He tried to wipe them away, feeling ashamed of them. His clumsy fingers made it difficult.
He distractedly wondered what color the tears were.