Kingdom of Shadows

in the resulting high-speed chase Landon plowed directly through a police barricade, killing two police officers. After losing control of the car he struck a group of pedestrians, killing two—including an elderly man and a woman who had been holding her four-year-old child at the time—and seriously injuring several others. Landon drove on. Several blocks later his tires were shot out and he crashed into a telephone pole. One of his accomplices died in the crash. The other survived but was gunned down as he attempted to flee the scene. Landon suffered several minor injuries but survived. He was given Life without parole.

Same final page: TERMINATED.

Rooster shook his head in disbelief and turned to Snow’s file.

Terrell Snow looked the same in the photo as he had at the bar earlier. His record was long and varied, consisting of everything from theft to assault to attempted murder to drug charges. A lifelong criminal and former gang member, Snow had, according to the paperwork at least, struggled with heroin addiction at one point earlier in his life. Something even Snow himself had been unaware of.

Which means it’s crap, Rooster thought.

After a long criminal career, the result of which was Snow spending the majority of his adult life in prison, he’d been convicted of beating a young woman to death in her apartment during a botched robbery.

I didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what I’d done.

The crime was listed as ‘particularly vicious’ in that the woman had apparently not resisted her assailant but had been beaten so mercilessly that police were initially unable to determine if the victim was male or female.

I don’t even remember it. I was on H when it went down and was hurting so bad for a fix I was out of my mind.

Snow received Life without parole.

I never meant to hurt her.

Last page: TERMINATED.

I’m already dead. Been dead and buried for years.

Of course he’d meant it figuratively, but Rooster couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more truth to Snow’s statement than he’d originally been willing to give it. He put the file aside and eyed the final one, his own. He downed another shot, felt his head swim a bit.

There he was looking back at himself in a photograph Rooster had no memory of ever posing for. His basic stats were all correct, as were the entries concerning his criminal record. He’d served several jail sentences over the years, having been arrested numerous times for theft and assault (once with a deadly weapon), but he’d only gone to prison twice. Once for his involvement in an armed bank robbery for which he served six years of a ten- year sentence, and the other, his final conviction for which he received Death.

This is ridiculous, he thought. How could I have served time on Death Row without having any memory of it? And what am I doing out even if I did?

He continued reading. He’d been given Death for the torture and murder of a man named Roland McKay.

A Roman Catholic priest.

Rooster’s breath caught at the base of his throat, and he brought a hand to his mouth for fear a literal gasp might escape his lips. His mind replayed the memory of the priest accosting him on the street. How could this be? He had no memory of ever murdering anyone, much less a priest. He was a thief like the rest of the crew, not some sadistic psychopath. And if he’d killed this man, how could he be stalking the city streets pointing an accusatory finger at anyone?

The files were all there in front of him in black-and-white. But not one of them made any goddamn sense. The information couldn’t be true.

Hesitantly, Rooster turned to the final page of his file.

TERMINATED.

-6-

He gathered up the files and threw them back into the briefcase on the floor. As he reached for the book he saw a business card lying on the table he hadn’t noticed previously. An address had been written on one side, a phone number on the other. Both had been written in ballpoint pen, and though legible, appeared hastily scribbled by a less than steady hand. Mind still reeling, Rooster considered the card a moment then grabbed the wall phone and dialed.

“We’re sorry,” a recorded female voice replied, “the number you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

He hung up and tried again. Perhaps the five shots of Jack Daniels had caused him to misdial. This time he concentrated on each number to make sure he got it right, but the same recording answered. He slammed the phone down, fear and uncertainty giving way to anger. It was short-lived. Within seconds of hanging up, the phone began to ring. Startled, he slowly reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. He could hear breathing. “Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Cantrell.” The voice was raspy and weak, like it belonged to a very tired old man. “You dialed the number. Obviously you’ve seen the files.”

“Who are you?”

“Look on the other side of the card,” the voice instructed. “Do you see an address there?”

“Yes.”

“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“No,” Rooster said, “let’s do this tonight. I want this over with.”

“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you. Come alone.”

The line clicked, died and was replaced with a dial tone. Rooster grabbed the card, read the address again. It meant nothing to him, just an address. His mind on overload, he tried to consider the information in the files again but couldn’t make sense of it. He knew those men. None of them were guilty of such things. And why in God’s name would he have tortured and murdered anyone? Why would someone invent pasts and former crimes for him and the others? Why would they compile files with false information about things that never happened? What could possibly be the point?

Rooster snatched the phone up again and this time dialed the number Snow had given him. He’d promised the information would answer his questions and tell him everything he needed to know. It hadn’t. The line rang several times without reply, and he was just about to hang up when he heard a soft click. The ringing ceased. “Hello?” he said a moment later.

“Who is this?” The voice was strange. Though male, it had a synthetic quality to it, like the person was speaking through a machine of some sort.

“Where’s Snow?”

“Who is this?”

“I need to speak to Snow, put him on the phone.”

“Who is this?”

“Who the hell is this?”

The voice answered in what began as English but quickly morphed into an indecipherable tongue, eventually becoming a deafening screech somewhere between a scream and a rage-filled, animal-like howl. Rooster pulled the phone from his ear, holding it several inches away, but the horrible wailing continued. He knew those sounds. He’d heard them before, somewhere in a distant and blurred past. Wracked with another wave of terror, he hung the phone up and backed away, stumbling into the kitchen table as he went.

A loud clap behind him sent a shiver through his body as he spun in the direction of the noise.

He’d knocked the book to the floor.

He retrieved it, tossed it on the table then grabbed the whiskey and poured another shot.