Free The Devil of Echo Lake by Douglas Wynne

and blood, and now you’re worried about a few percentage points on some money you haven’t even earned yet . That was enough to silence his guilt and doubt. Trevor Rail had found Billy Moon at the bottom, in his darkest hour. He had nothing to lose and the world to gain.
    He put the pen to the paper and signed his name after the X.
     
    *  *  *
     
    The limo crawled up a narrow alley and stopped in front of a dumpster. Rats scampered over the lip and shot off into the dark. The driver got out first and opened the rear door. Billy climbed out with Rail on his heels.
    “Where are we?” Billy asked.
    “I’m going to show you what you have to live for.”
    “In a piss-stinking back alley? This ought to be good.”
    “In there,” Rail said, pointing his long fingernail at a reinforced steel door. The only indication of what lay beyond was a piece of gray driftwood hanging from a black iron scroll arm above the entrance. Painted on the wood in gold leaf in an archaic script were the words: CARNIVORE'S CARNIVALE
    Rail knocked. The hinges shrieked and the door opened to reveal a bald-headed black man with a gold ring the size of a small doorknocker hanging from his nose. Rail inclined his head ever so slightly and said, “Good evening, Peter.”
    “Evening, Mr. Rail.”
    Peter reached out with a muscle-ripped arm and pulled on a heavy metal bar, like a gambler spinning a slot machine. A second, inner door opened like an air lock, releasing a wash of industrial voodoo drums and chainsaw guitars.
    The space inside was packed with the sort of New York revelers who look like they’ve just stepped out of the six pages of cologne-drenched fashion ads one has to flip through to find the table of contents in Vanity Fair : bare-chested omni-sexual golden boys in Armani vests and emaciated girls in rawhide-laced slit skirts, thick black eyeliner, electric blue hair. The air was tinged with hashish smoke and pheromones and underneath it all, a bass note of charred flesh and iron.
    The room, which at first sight had appeared vast, soon resolved itself into a claustrophobic box when Billy noticed that the purple and yellow robo-lights were reflecting back at him off mirrored walls. A tall, thin girl with a pallid complexion, dressed in a sequined leotard completed by a top hat and baton, stretched like taffy as she danced. It took Billy a few seconds to decide that he was not, in fact, tripping. They were funhouse mirrors.
    A path opened through the crowd when Rail walked across the room. Even those whose backs were turned to him, or who danced with their eyes closed, stepped aside instinctively at his approach. When he and Billy reached the other side of the dance floor, they passed under an archway of heavy wooden scrollwork painted with cracked gold. The volume of the pounding music dropped down enough in this new space—more tunnel than hallway—to allow conversation as they passed through.
    “What is this place?” Billy asked, touching the silky sleeve of Rail’s jacket.
    “It’s a private club,” Rail said. “The finest fresh flesh in New York.”
    The music receded behind them, and now Billy could make out another sound coming from somewhere ahead, growing louder. It was a drip-drop splashing sound, echoing through the tunnel. He looked down and saw that they were walking through a thin layer of water he hadn’t noticed before. The passageway was long; the only light the purple and yellow flicker on the ceiling far behind them at the mouth, and a dim blue glow up ahead.
    Billy hesitated, thought of turning back. Who was this guy, anyway? His survival instincts were being triggered with each step they took away from the crowd. Billy stopped walking. Rail seized his wrist and pulled him forward with enough force to make him slip on the wet floor. As he tumbled toward it, throwing his hands out and bracing for impact, he felt his leather jacket tighten around him. Rail had caught him with one hand. In both the tug and