City of the Lost Read Online Free

“He . . . look, Mariel, are you gonna be up for awhile? I think I should come over.”
    A considering silence. “What’s happened to Julio?”
    How do you tell someone that her husband ripped through his own throat with a broken bottle?
    There’s a noise on the other end. “Hang on,” she says, puts the phone down. A few seconds go by. “God, Joe, you had me scared there.”
    “Sorry?” I say.
    “Julio,” she says. “He just walked in. You want to talk to him?” Her voice fades in and out as I drive through a dead patch around Fernwood and start to lose the signal. “Honey,” she says away from the mouthpiece, “Joe’s on the phone.”
    “Mariel,” I say. “Listen to me. Julio’s not there. He’s not coming home.”
    “No,” she says. “He’s right here. He’s—” A pause.
    And then she starts screaming.
    “Mariel? What’s happening?” If she answers me it’s lost in a burst of digital static. The signal cuts out completely. I throw the phone into the passenger seat, stomp on the gas, and tear through the canyon as fast as my car will take me.
    I cut the lights half a block from the house, park behind a pickup across the street. Did Mariel just snap? I never got she was all that stable to begin with. Or is there somebody actually in there? And if so, who is it?
    One way to find out. I pull the pistol from under my seat and fit the suppressor over the barrel. Check the chamber, load a clip, rack the slide.
    Front door’s cracked open. I can see Mariel sitting on the floor at the foot of the sofa. I ease the door open, step inside.
    And there’s Julio sitting on the couch, Mariel’s hand in his, head moving from side to side. He’s got wide eyes, like he can’t remember how to blink, a ragged flap of snake belly white skin and muscle where his throat used to be.
    His mouth is working like a grouper, trying to make a sound, but nothing’s coming out, not even a wheeze. Takes me a second to realize it’s because he’s not breathing.
    Mariel turns to me when I come in, tears streaming down her face, mascara painting dark lines down to her chin. “Help him,” she says to me. “Oh, God, please help him.”
    “Holy fuck,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. I stand stock still, gun tight in my fist. I have no idea what to do. Seems a little late for the paramedics. I step slowly toward them, Julio barely acknowledging me, and touch him. His skin is clammy. I check his pulse. Nothing.
    I remember Frank Tanaka’s weirdly intense interest in Giavetti, the detective telling me to call him if I see anything weird. This is definitely fucking weird. But I bring him into this and Simon’s fucked. Maybe me, too.
    Julio turns to me, head lolling to one side. Yellow pus oozes out the gash in his throat.
    To hell with Simon. All bets are off. This is the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.
    I dig around in my jacket for Frank’s card. My phone is still in the car, so I grab Mariel’s.
    She’s obsessively patting Julio’s hand, rocking back and forth, saying, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all gonna be okay.” Trying to hold things together, but she doesn’t know how. I’m not sure I’m doing any better.
    “I heard him come in,” she says, her eyes glued to her husband. “And then I saw him like this. What happened to him, Joe?” Her body heaves with fresh sobs. “I don’t know what to do.”
    The phone rings once, twice, then clicks as Frank comes on the line. “Hello?” he says, voice groggy with sleep.
    “Frank,” I say. “Joe Sunday. Look. Julio. . . .” I’m not sure what to say. I’ve got a dead man on the sofa, and I need some help. I think Giavetti might have something to do with it, and oh, by the way, my boss thinks he murdered him in London fifty years ago. And did I mention that the dead guy on the couch is still moving around?
    What the hell am I doing, calling a goddamn cop?
    “What?” he asks.
    I take a deep breath. I need somebody who can think straight.