Under the Bones
Under the Bones
A Lou Thorne Thriller
Kory M. Shrum
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Thank you!
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kory M. Shrum
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places have been used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. Although every precaution has been taken in preparation of the book, the publisher and the author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of information contained in this book or its misuse.
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All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 Kory M. Shrum
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Cover Design by Christian Bentulan
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Happy reading,
Kory
This one is for Josephine,
the best of writing companions.
Rest in peace, my sweet girl.
1
The blood loss was slowing him down. Darkness pooled in the corners of his eyes and he was certain at any moment, he would black out. The three bullets in his body shifted, burning in their punched-out sockets.
The toes of his leather boots scraped along the stone floor, but he kept moving. Crooked corridor after corridor, he tried to find his way out of this winding place. This palace of shadows.
It was sacrilege to die in Padre Leo’s church. His old mentor had entrusted his empire to Konstantine to protect, to ensure his legacy. Not die at the hands of the first gunslinger to breach its walls.
Konstantine’s knees weakened and he pitched forward. His right shoulder clipped an unforgiving wall. Pain shot through his side and stole the breath from his lungs. He crumpled to his hands and knees, the shock of impact ringing through his bones. Blood ran down his arm from the knife wound in his left shoulder. More dripped directly onto the stone from the puncture in his gut. It splattered against the corridor’s floor in a soothing pit-pat-pit-pat that made him think of summer rain.
Not here, he thought. He wasn’t sure if he was begging or praying. It didn’t matter. Not here.
“Konstantine!” a cheerful voice called out. “Are you leaving us so soon?”
Cruel laughter echoes through the darkness. It sounded as though it was everywhere at once. Behind him. Ahead. Above and below. The sound of a hungry beast in pursuit, nearly on top of him.
“Behold your fearless leader, Ravengers,” the voice went on. That omniscient, all-encompassing orator. “This pathetic boy you worship, he is nothing. Nobody.”
Konstantine spat blood onto the floor, and pulled himself up to standing. His desperate fingers scraped the wall. But he was moving again and the white-hot pain sharpened his mind.
Where was his gun? He needed his gun.
“Did you really think your man Enzo could hold us back? Or the others you sent after him? Nothing can hold me back, Konstantine. The Ravengers belong to me. Your life belongs to me.”
“No,” Konstantine replied. Then his chest tightened again and he could say no more.
“No?” A hard kick to his ribs made Konstantine gasp, the leg coming seemingly from nowhere.
Konstantine dropped onto his left side, his head connecting with the sharp corner of a wooden pew. Even as red sparks exploded in front of his eyes and his vision swam, he knew where he was now. He’d made it through the bowels of the church up to the nave. There was only the center aisle and then the door that would let him out of this place.
Only a few feet more…
Yet the world was shaking. No, he was shaking. From blood loss and coursing pain. His body would go into complete shock at any moment.
“No?” Nico teased again. His voice hissed directly into Konstantine’s ear now. “Surely you knew this was how you would die. Surely you knew I would be the one.”
Konstantine supposed he did know he would die like this. On his back, his guts pumped full of gunmetal. His flesh singed with ash.
But he had always hoped it would be her on the other end. Her hands that drew his soul from his body.
My life belongs to you—if anybody. Louie Thorne. My goddess of death.
He began to laugh then, hysteria washing over him. The men beat him harder for it until all that remained was the darkness, the pain, and one clear invitation.
If you still want to kill me, Louie, amore mio, you’d better hurry, he thought. Before it’s too late.
2
Lou lifted the orange pill bottle from the windowsill and turned it in light. She set it down, selected another, her thumb picking at the edge of a peeling label. The entire ledge was covered with these white-capped bottles like little plastic soldiers in formation.
Waiting for orders. Waiting to die.
Her hand shot out and slapped them from their sill in one furious swipe. Some bounced off the counter and spun on the kitchen floor. Others clanked into the sink.
When her petty strike wasn’t enough to release the rage bubbling inside her, she curled her left hand into a fist and put it through the window.
For a moment, nothing. Then pain bloomed across her knuckles. Her whole face grew hot and she could feel her pulse spread through her chest down into her fingertips. A six-inch shard of glass protruded between her third and middle fingers. She gripped the shard and pulled. Blood spurted into the kitchen sink, splashing onto the demolished windowpane and a couple of pill bottles. Her heart rate returned to a slow, steady calm as she watched her blood coalesce into red pearls.
When she felt in control of herself again, she thought, better clean this up before Luc
y comes home.
Her second thought, Lucy is never coming home.
Aunt Lucy couldn’t care less about a broken window or a lost security deposit. The blood in the sink or the glass shards in the garbage disposal. Nor the pills on the floor.
She would leave NOLA Cancer Center in an urn. And that would be the end of it.
Without her aunt, she’d have no reason to pretend anymore. No one to convince that she was still human with a human heart.
Lou turned on the tap and rinsed her bloody hand until the pierced flesh looked as pale as a corpse’s. Bloodless.
Why am I even here?
She wrapped her hand in a dish towel and stood in the kitchen entryway. She surveyed the apartment. There sat the sofa with its afghan, where Lou had done most of her homework until graduating eight years ago. There sat the wooden rocker holding her aunt’s meditation pillow, where Lucy herself liked to sit in the evenings with a glass of iced tea in her hand, no matter the temperature outside.
True, she’d replaced the rug recently. But the pictures were all the same, and the coffee table with its scuffed legs was the same. And the sparse second bedroom at the end of the hallway still looked the way it did the last night Lou slept in it. The last night she called this place home.
The only thing that had changed was the damn pill bottles. So many damned pills bottles.
Lou didn’t need to pack any of this up. She could make King do it. She could hire someone. There were whole companies that specialized in bubble wrap and cardboard boxes.
She had no reason to be here. Yet here she was.
This was your home. The only home you had after I died.
It was Jack’s voice. Her father’s steady tone unmistakable.
And she’s the only family you have left.
Jack’s ghost was never far these days. She knew her aunt’s would join him soon enough. A menagerie of spirits to keep her company through the long days and nights stretching before her.
Lou pulled open a kitchen drawer and grabbed a second blue hand towel from the top of the pile. She rewrapped her bleeding hand and cast one more look at the busted window and scattered bottles before stepping into the pantry and closing the door.
For a moment, she only stood in the dark. Breathing. Her eyes slid unseeing over boxes of macaroni and cheese and instant rice that would never be eaten.
Lucy hadn’t been able to use the pantry for slipping. The cold, thin light wedging itself through the cracks was enough to keep her pinned to this side of the world. Her aunt had needed complete pitch to slip through the thin places.
It wasn’t the same for Lou. The light seeping between the trim and door didn’t hold her back. Nor the light spilling across the floor. As Lou stared at a bag of potato chips, sealed closed with its red clip, the world thinned anyway.
It shifted beneath her. Softened. Already the slot machine handle had been pulled, and a new time and place was lining up in the dark for her.
She thought of the mess of broken glass, blood, and destroyed hand towels she was leaving behind.
Later. She would deal with that later.
You can’t run from this, her father’s ghost chided.
Not running. Hunting. Two hours and it would be full dark.
This one promise of violence loosened a growing knot in her back. Some women dream of slipping out of their heels and having a nice glass of wine at the end of the day. Lou dreamed of the smell of gunsmoke and the itching feel of blood drying on her hands.
She knew peace only when staring into the wide whites of a man’s unseeing eyes. When she knew their heart beat out its last rhythm to the sound of her gunfire.
She slipped.
The pantry and Aunt Lucy’s Chicago apartment fell away. An ambulance siren was replaced mid-wail by whooshing water in pipes. A steam engine honked in the distance. An announcer from Busch stadium called out a play.
Her towel wrapped hand pushed open the closet. The orange rays of a late afternoon stretched across her studio’s bare floor. In the enormous picture window, an unobstructed view of the Mississippi river. Lou watched the water shimmer, the great red wheel churning on the back of a steamboat, a tourist vessel that seemed to float up and down the river 365 days a year. Ant-sized people wandered the boardwalk. Dogs chased the pigeons. Children splashed in a fountain. A couple paused to share a kiss.
Where were they going? Home? To their families? To warm dinners waiting or their nightly television shows?
Could she have been one of those people—if her life had started out differently? If her parents hadn’t been murdered when she was a twelve. If she hadn’t been born with such a terrifying and extraordinary gift…
Did it even matter?
Every body she dropped took her farther away from the life her parents and aunt had imagined for her—even if she never had the chance to imagine such a life for herself.
Lou unwrapped her bloody hand and inspected the puncture between her knuckles. The bleeding had stopped, a clump of dried blood crusted there. She tossed the towel onto her bed.
Sunlight from the adjacent buildings sparked in her eyes. While cabs honked down wide boulevards below, she crossed the room and removed a painting that hung on the brick wall. A replica of Picasso’s “Girl with a Mandolin.”
She remembered the first time she’d seen the painting in the MOMA, with her aunt standing beside her.
I love this painting, her aunt had said, a floral dress swaying softly along her thighs as she came up onto her toes for a closer look. Isn’t she intriguing?
Lou hadn’t been intrigued. She’d known only clear comprehension, convinced the painting was the closest thing to herself she’d ever see represented. Not because of the mandolin. In no world would Lou pick up an instrument—her only melody was gunfire—but the fragmentation, that was something she understood.
This is what happens to me when I slip through the darkness. Lou was split into pieces, fed through the cracks and reassembled on the other side. She kept the painting to remind her of who she really was—not the woman Jack or Lucy wanted her to be. They saw nothing more than pieces, assembled in the shape of a woman. A familiar image the mind constructed when confronted by the unknown.
Not the truth.
Lou knew the truth.
That if someone opened her up, they would find only darkness inside. That it was the emptiness—all the space between—that made her what she was.
Lou lifted the painting from the wall and propped it against her leg. She pressed three bricks and the façade clicked. Her thumb worked under the edge, prying it free to expose a steel safe set into the wall. Lou entered her six-number combination until the safe opened itself. She took the two Browning pistols from the top of the cash and the extra magazines.
She considered tonight’s possible targets. Henry deVanti—a pimp in Atlanta who specialized in sex trafficking young girls from South Africa. Ricky Flint— a heroin dealer in New York who beat his wife and kids. Or maybe Freddie Calzone, a coyote in So-Cal who took the money from poor Mexican women dreaming of a better life, before raping them and leaving them to die in the desert, either killed by militia or captured by ICE.
So many men in the world that she wanted to see at the other end of her gun.
Once the safe was resealed and the painting back in place, she stood in her apartment with a pistol in each hand.
Her eyes roved over her counters, the bare island, and the unused stove. The mattress shoved under the large windows, the place in the apartment offering the most sunlight, and a safeguard against slipping in her sleep.
Every item she saw. The plum throw pillows. The slate gray sleeper sofa. The glass coffee table. The art deco lamp—every piece of it was Lucy’s doing. It was Lucy who had begged her to get an address. To stop roving from vacant home to vacant home. Lucy who kept trying to tie her to this time, this place. Lucy…her last tether to this world. And when it’s cut—
Lou looked at the pistol in each hand. The extra a
mmo clipped to the belt around her hips.
The compass inside her whirled to life. That internal intuition that dictated where she slipped and when. More instinctive animal than logic.
Go, go, go, it howled. Before it’s too late.
She resisted. Her aunt may want her to visit, to hash out their last argument again, but Lou wanted none of it. Not the arguing. Not the disagreement. Not the relentless bright light of the hospital, the least safe place in the world as far she was concerned.
Lucy wanted peace. No more violence. Lou couldn’t give her that.
But it wasn’t her aunt on the other end of this tug. No sense of that benevolent, Buddhist essence.
There was darkness on the other end of the wire. The promise of violence.
Lou didn’t like to think about her compass as having an intelligence of its own. Doing so forced her to consider an uncomfortable truth: she wasn’t as in control of her ability as she wanted to be.
As a child, this was apparent. Every slip was accidental and seemingly unprovoked.
As an adult, she’d convinced herself she’d grown into it. She chose her locations and moved where she wanted. But she knew a lie when she heard it. And she’d been forced to confront this uncomfortable truth in June, when Konstantine, the bastard son of her sworn enemy, came crashing back into her life.