“So did I. And…” Palermo struggled with whether to tell him anything else, decided that if he had loved Adelina, then he deserved to know at least this – some truth mixed in with a lie: “I didn’t kill her. No one did. She just… ascended. Or something akin to that. We don’t know what to call it, exactly. People have various words for it. It’s only happened once.”
Palermo had already tipped one of the cards in his hand – a damn big one, at that. He wasn’t about to tip them all by telling Krebosche about Henry Kyllo.
“But I saw you and another man go into a house. I followed you there. You went in, with Adelina. A while later, after a woman showed up, you left that house – without Adelina – and a good portion of the house was destroyed by something – something that demolished it from the inside. And I never saw or heard from Adelina again.”
“When we went into that house, it was to witness her transformation.”
“Into what?”
“We didn’t know.”
“So what happened?”
“We still don’t know. She just –” he motioned upward with his hands “– disappeared.”
More lies. “How? Like in a fucking magic show? What destroyed most of the house? And what’s this ‘ascension’ horseshit? What the hell are you talking about?” Krebosche’s anger rose quickly in his chest. “You expect me to believe this?”
With Krebosche’s outburst came a sudden wave of lightheadedness in Palermo. He was losing blood. Not fast, but fast enough that it needed to be stopped very soon, or he’d pass out.
“Seriously, can I get some sort of tourniquet on this? If we’re going to sit and chat, I need to be conscious.”
“Fine, shit.” Krebosche rooted around behind Palermo’s seat for a couple of seconds, sure to keep an eye on him, then came up with a camera with a strap. “Use the strap.”
A minute later, Palermo had the camera strap wrapped around his leg. The bleeding stopped.
“So this person you were going to bring me to – the guy who you said killed Adelina. Obviously a trap of some kind. What’s there? What kind of ambush would I have been walking into?”
“Not a big one. Just two of my men stationed there, watching an apartment I asked them to keep an eye on.”
“Well, clearly we’re not going there now.”
“Clearly.”
Another car drove by, didn’t turn in.
“You know,” Palermo said, deciding on a different tack, realizing that trying to convince Krebosche to go somewhere – anywhere – of his choosing would never work. “I’m something of a weather tracker. All weather means something, I think. It’s a harbinger of things to come. If you study it closely enough, I think you can tell what might be coming down the road for you.”
Krebosche just looked at him.
“I keep notebooks,” Palermo added.
“Good for you.”
“Yes, actually, it is, because I think this storm means something. We’ve never had one like it – not in the entire time I’ve been keeping track, which is to say nearly my whole life.”
“Fine, I’ll bite. What do you think it means?”
“Damned if I know.”
That hung in the air for a moment, then Krebosche said, “Alright, then. Good to know.”
“I’m just saying, maybe our meeting wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe we were supposed to meet like this. Maybe there’s a reason for it.”
“Yeah, the reason was for me to kill you.” But now… Krebosche thought. He closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled slowly, rubbed his head with the heel of the hand holding the gun. “But now I don’t know. It’s fucked. I had everything all planned out, but…” He shook his head as if trying to put his thoughts back in their proper order.
“But you’re not a killer.”
Krebosche looked up. “Really. Now, how do you know that?”
“You’d have done it by now. You’d have done it the moment we were safely away from the warehouse. You’d have had me park somewhere, told me who you were, cut my head off or shot me to death, left my body in the jeep to rot. But you didn’t. And I don’t think you will now. You don’t have it in you. As much as you wish you did. It’s just not there. I know what a killer looks like, and you’re simply not it.”
In truth, Palermo knew no such thing. But he felt there was enough truth in what he said that he had a shot at this panning out in his favor.
“I mean, you gave me a tourniquet for the leg you stabbed. Twice.” Palermo allowed himself a smile, hoped his instincts were serving him well, and that his attempt at humor wouldn’t backfire.
Krebosche seemed to have softened at Palermo’s words. His scowl less severe, shoulders less tense. The gun, however, continued to be held tight in Krebosche’s hand, so any sudden movements could still end very poorly for Palermo.
Krebosche thought things through, analyzing them from every angle. Was he a killer? Had all this preparation been for nothing? Could he let it all go so easily, just let Palermo get out of the car, walk away?
Palermo watched his face intently. He was sure he’d convinced him. Perhaps tricked Krebosche out of killing him. He wondered how far he could push it. When – or even if – he should ask to be released.