Ambrosia

PART ONE

BRING IT ON HOME

CHAPTER ONE

Cheyenne, WY, 1979

Soon after their nuptials—there had been no honeymoon—the Wards moved into a cluttered cubbyhole apartment just outside Seattle, a place they would remain for what they’d hoped to be a spell, but was actually more of a prison term. Those early days had been hard ones for Nathan and Francesca, each holding down crummy forty-a-week jobs, Francesca picking up occasional shifts at the coffee shop—and, later, a downtown deli—when she could manage. All this while both attended night classes at the community college, working toward slips of paper they one day hoped to put behind glass and hang on a wall and hope it made a better life for them.

Six years later it looked as if their gamble was finally paying off. They’d moved from their apartment, renting instead a comfortable flat in a new complex across town. Sheepskins in hand, Francesca had been hired by a start-up software company out of Bellevue, while Nathan was busy preaching physics to high schoolers in nearby Meadowbrook.

Then something happened.

They’d quit their jobs and soon after exited Seattle, settling on a good few acres in the High Plains of Wyoming. Theirs was a simple double-story ranch house, wood-sided with a wraparound porch, though considering the investments they’d had their fingers in they could certainly have afforded bigger, with a white picket fence out front.

Even without the fence, the Ward residence glowed as the picture of class and elegance against the late-winter sky. The house stood silent, and while on any other night the Wards would’ve been locked safely away inside, tonight was not like other nights and as it happened the Wards were away. And even had their neighbors been closer than a few miles down the road, they still would’ve been hard-pressed to notice the shadow shuffling stealthily inside.

The shadow, whose name was Drexl Samson, shook and zipped his pants, blowing a sloow breath of satisfaction before flushing the bowl. He’d started away when he paused suddenly, glancing to make certain the rest of his cigarette stayed down. Once upon a time he’d made the mistake of thinking little things like that didn’t matter—that he could come and go as he pleased, too smooth to ever be fingered—then one night a few years back he’d gotten sloppy with his menthols. And while there’d been no official investigation by the local blue boys after finding the bodies, he’d been made to understand there were more than a few curious minds wondering at how a random cigarette butt had found its way into a house of clean-freak health nuts.

So Drexl checked the damned bowl, giving a quick flash of his mini-light—the water was clean, pure as a river—before moving down the hall, the faint smell of peppermint trailing close behind. He came into the kitchen and gulped water from the faucet, and wiping his mouth Drexl caught a reflection of himself in the window over the sink: his shining blonde hair and endless dark eyes, the sharpened ears that had always seemed a bit too large for his head. Not the prettiest face in the world—sure, he’d admit it—but it was one he’d owned for some time now, and never once had he taken it for granted.

He moved around and took a seat at the fancy bar, some sort of marble-granite deal with fruit bowls and dainty little knick-knacks, all things which seemed particularly meaningless to Drexl. Marriage shit. He’d had a family once—nice-enough wife, couple of kids—but that seemed all so far away, in another lifetime, and the idea of ever going back sent a chill straight down his soul. He shuddered, drawing one massive hand down his face before lifting his leg and letting one go. The stench rose, momentarily clouding the mint-candy smell, and Drexl kicked back in the chair and made himself at home.

On jobs like this Drexl made a habit of raiding the bookshelves of whatever house he was in, perusing whatever looked interesting. Over the past few hours since arriving he’d worked through a couple novels, a history-type book on Caesar’s conquest of Gaul, a collection of O. Henry short stories. He’d then moved on to Yeats.

Strange cats, these Wards were. Real eclectic.

Drexl lifted the next book—Tuck Everlasting—and began to read, his curious eyes scanning the pages so quickly he appeared the victim of an epileptic fit. His eyes had always drawn attention, not just for being on the jittery side but mostly because of how damned black the things were. You’ve got the devil’s eyes, a teacher had told him once, so black you could get lost in ’em and never find your way out. He’d hissed at her then, drawing down his tongue, just funning, but Mrs. Abigail was not the funning sort, and after school she’d led him to the woods out back the schoolhouse and given him the privilege of picking his own switch.

He scrolled the pages, mind falling away and getting lost in Winnie Foster’s world, deeper and deeper until a cold finger touched suddenly on his spine and he stopped. Outside, a Chinook wind whipped riotously around the eaves, howling a lonesome note across the night; windows creaked, bowing to the pressure. Only it wasn’t just the wind he was feeling here, there was something else. Something else entirely.

Drexl closed the book.

Looking on, one may have assumed the man was simply bored, restless after a long night of lounging in a stranger’s home. Even Drexl himself may’ve assumed such a thing, way back when. But now he was older, wiser—now he knew better—and stood from his chair, walking to the library, returning the book to the shelf. He made a final walkthrough of the house, checking rooms, making sure everything was exactly so. Great Satan’s in the details, he told himself. Life’s a game of inches, he told himself, and moments later heard a buzz and felt the pager on his waist vibrate.

Drexl smiled, pleased with himself for having anticipated, for having felt it before Lola so much as dialed. Perhaps, he thought, they’d forged some sort of mystic mind-meld, something to do with the Procedure. It had clearly affected their bodies, no question in that; maybe it had affected their minds as well. Some unforeseen side-effect. He didn’t give one good shit either way, all he knew was that in ten minutes the Wards would come strolling through that front door and be damned if he wouldn’t be ready for them.

Reaching in his pocket, he retrieved a letter written no doubt by some desk jockey with a thing for stencils but that would pass under parental scrutiny as one written by Francesca Ward herself. He’d looked it over but there wasn’t much to it; the standard intimations of depression, private despair, a couple well-placed lines bordering on the paranoid. Drexl supposed it could seem cruel, to lesser minds, what he was doing here tonight. To lesser minds, the Wards were blue-eyed sparkly-toothed angels with nary a sin to their name. And for all he knew they were right—look at this house, after all, the furniture, look at that yard. Hell, another year and they’d probably have a rugrat running around, pulling down curtains and puking all over the place.

None of that concerned Drexl.

He did not bother himself with morals, and did not particularly care for the betterment of the human race. Far as he saw it, he was a man hired to do a job and he’d been paid well to do it. He was good at what he did—damned good, to be so bold—and the Bureau knew it. And you could bet your sweet bippy Lola Agnew knew it too, or else he wouldn’t be here right now—no way, no how.

Drexl placed the letter next to a wire figurine—looked like a gnarled coat hanger—and proceeded to the dining room, a tidy area which smelled faintly of lavender. Unlike some of the other marks he’d had the pleasure of hosting, the Wards believed heartily in the Second Amendment and were proud owners of a Mossberg 500. Presently the shotgun stood leaning against the dining room table; Drexl snatched it up now before proceeding to the foyer. Back in the Bureau’s earliest days, they’d taken another approach. Played it way different. He’d read stories. But it didn’t take an Einstein to realize the setup worked best when the ducks were sitting and didn’t see it coming and so he’d pieced together a life of squatting in darkness, biding his time reading Hemingway or Shakespeare or the Bible.

A sudden splash of headlights swept the windows and Drexl crept forward, watching as Lola’s familiar Cadillac pulled to a stop out front. Moments later the rear door swung open and the Wards climbed doggedly from the car—first Francesca, a tall goosey-looking girl with big brown hair and lanky arms, followed by Nathan, some twerp with glasses and a chest like a kindergartner. Even in darkness their faces looked ragged and worn, dug-up corpses who had yet to shed their flesh. They lumbered toward the porch, glancing occasionally to the car as it reversed and sped away, and it was all Drexl could do not to grin.

Sitting ducks?

Hell, they might as well be pulling the trigger themselves.

Nathan entered the house, pausing a moment for his wife to wander in trance-like behind him before shutting the door. He fumbled clumsily at the knob, twisting the various locks into place, and was turning to hit the lights when suddenly Drexl sprang forward, erupting like a caged animal from the darkness.

Nathan turned, startled, his whole world spinning to life but not soon enough and Drexl unloaded, the blast nailing the boy squarely in the chest and lifting him off his feet. He crashed backwards against the wall and Drexl fired again, this one going to the gut and some of the buckshot spraying wide, tearing at wallpaper. Blood spewed, rushing out of him like water from a twisted sponge, and by the time the man-child slumped forward and sprawled motionless on the classy Karastan rug, his heart was still.

Francesca screamed, and that was her first mistake.

Any sane person would have (a) ran for their life, or (b) rushed the shit out of him, ripping the gun from his hands. She had done neither, and her second mistake was in making the first all over again as he moved in and propped the muzzle snugly beneath her chin. He watched as her face tightened, eyes meeting his and dawning with realization as she remembered, as she realized who he was, and though she’d not exactly been thrilled meeting him the first time, this second encounter was proving the lick of her spoon.

He reached up, giant fingers wrapping her head and dragging her down the hall to the living room. This shot was crucial, and there came a moment—fleeting as it was—when he thought this girl might just grow a pair and fight back; but the element of surprise was simply too much for her, overwhelming her ability to think and reason. Struggling to speak despite the barrel squeezing in at her jaw, she said, "But we...we did everything...you asked..."

Drexl gazed into her with his cold black eyes, realizing now the fear had taken her completely, possessing and reducing her to no more than a quivering pile of flesh and bone. For some in Drexl’s position, there was the temptation for such a thing to make them feel powerful, superior. But it wasn’t like that for him. And though one would never guess it looking at him, it actually saddened him in a way, seeing some poor soul reduced to this, seeing them humiliated by their own base emotions. But then the weaker ones usually were...

"Not everything."

He pulled the trigger and the top of her head opened, spraying a mash of blood and brain matter up and up, gumming the walls, some of it clunking the ceiling and dropping like confetti and flitting around him in a gory rainfall. Drexl groaned and propped Francesca on the couch, lifting the girl’s lanky arms and taking her hands and wrapping the gun, leaning the barrel just so beneath her ruined face and then standing back, correcting, all the while doing his best to ignore the sudden draft that had taken over the house and which he knew would forever stain its walls, because that was the way houses worked, capturing every idle thought, every emotion, harnessing and remembering them for all those who had come and gone and who no longer had any memory.

He reached down, scooping a small palm-size camera from his pocket and taking a series of snapshots showing the gruesome aftermath of the past sixty seconds. The Bureau was nothing if not thorough, and though admittedly he’d succumbed to a sick satisfaction from taking these pictures, at the end of the night it was still just business.

Always business.

He pocketed the camera and backed away, the cool rush of the encounter moving through him, thrilling him. His hands shuddered and by a force of will he stopped them, pulling them tight at his sides. Making sure to avoid the tapestry of gore and blood spatter across the floor, Drexl slid quietly through the kitchen to the back door, slipping out, using the key the Bureau had provided to lock up after himself. By the time Lola’s Cadillac appeared once more down the road, steering back toward him, the clammy feeling had left him and his heart had ceased to dance, slowing to a dry thump in his chest as he readied for the long ride home.

CHAPTER TWO

The bus stopped just outside of town, some forgotten corner where one could safely view the county below but without getting so close as to actually commit to going there. Doors hissed shut as Travis stepped out and the Greyhound rolled away, slipping through a hole in the early morning fog, and for a long time he stood gazing along the road, taking in the clouds, the rain, his eyes drifting inevitably to the misty light of the streets below; Travis stared, struggling to remember those streets as they were so long ago, so dark and full of life.

He started along the road toward town, savoring the rush of clean air riding on the rain until finally the clouds broke and Travis heard only the low whistles he hadn’t noticed from his lips until now—same damned tune he’d been humming since Yokosuka. He’d been lots of places since then, burned a lot of miles through a lot of states—most of them on foot—and still the tune remained, still as soft and sorrowful as when he’d first heard it back...well, back when exactly? And just how long could a song stay stuck in some poor bastard’s head, anyway?

But Travis only smiled, unable to deny some gathering peace in himself.

He felt good, after all, felt vibrant—one hell of a lot better than he’d felt four months earlier, when he’d come here to lay his mother in the ground. Looking back, that trip seemed a thousand years in the past, a million, as shapeless and murky as the buildings rising from the patina of fog in the distance; then he came closer and the buildings took shape, one word glowing from the overhang of an old gas station up ahead: LUCKEY’S.

He stepped inside, a small bell tinkling overhead as Travis noticed an older man with a south-of-the-border tan lounging behind the counter, silky black hair pulled back in a cool-dude ponytail. The man glanced up from his magazine and, catching sight of Travis, suddenly went slack in the face, his jaw loosing to reveal a slimy puddle of chewing tobacco. Slowly, the mouth closed, kept chewing. The eyes stayed just where they were.

Help you?

No thanks, he said, casually strolling the aisles. He’d spotted a spinner rack and made his way over, was turning it, eyeing the books. Romance novels, mostly. Couple spy books, some sci-fi. He found the closest thing to a creeper and took it off the shelf. Walked back to the counter and now he could make out the crackling buzz of a police scanner, of muttering voices lost in static.

That all? the old man asked, still with the eyes.

That’ll do. Travis yawned, adjusting the duffel on his shoulder and giving a careful glance around the store. Then he lowered his voice and said, "That and every damned dollar in the drawer."

The man froze, one finger dangling over the register.

B-beg pardon?

But Travis only stared, a spark of red fury flaring in his eyes as he reared back and readied to let loose, to slam the counter and leap like a fool and—

And then it was too much, his head dropping, a sudden grin creeping over his lips. He burst into laughter.

The old-timer blinked, life slowly draining back into his face. "Travis? he asked, astonished. Travis, is that...is that you in there?"

Travis extended an arm. How’s it going, Juan?

Get that out of my face, Juan said, waving away the hand. You almost gave me a heart attack just now, you know that? Sick pendejo. For a second there I thought I might have to shoot you. He reached down, revealing a shiny snubnose .38 from beneath the counter, giving it a shake. Old Betsy here, she’ll knock you off your feet.

Easy, now, Travis said, glancing outside the store windows, into the streets. Let’s not go giving anybody the wrong idea here...

The wrong idea—oh, and what would that be? Some long-haired screwball coming in, knockin’ over a poor old man’s shop? Juan slipped away the gun and stood back, staring. Travis, Travis, what have you done to yourself?

Hell, it’s only a beard, Juan. Some folks even wear them year-round.

Mi amigo, that is one beast of a beard...

He smiled, running a hand down his face, stroking his growth. It was a beast, Juan was right about that. But after so many years with a crew cut and clean shave, the beard had been a welcome change. An outward display of some inner shift. Only now—standing here in Juan Marquez’s shop, watching him jaw away at tobacco and hearing the familiar static of the police scanner—did Travis sense another shift fast on the way, that after so many years he was finally home and there was something to be made of that. On impulse, he dashed down the aisle and grabbed a bag of razors, some shaving cream, then placed them on the counter next to the paperback.

A wise decision, Juan told him. A nice seorita wouldn’t lay hands on you with a rug like that on your face.

A nice seorita wouldn’t lay hands on me anyhow.

That’s a lie and you know it, Juan said, grinning as he took Travis’s money and handed over the change. Nice young military man like yourself...I’ll bet you’re beating them off with a club? Eh?

I’m not military, Juan. Not anymore. And not so young anymore, either.

You, out of the service? Since when?

So they talked. About the Navy and life overseas and about his mother, who maybe wasn’t the most perfect or wholesome lady but who didn’t deserve to die so young. Travis asked if there’d been any more sloshed Irishmen stopping in to chat about the spelling on the sign out front, and Juan stroked his black hair and replied no more than the usual.

Nice as it was to see Juan