by Sawyer Black
The second he was outside, Henry asked, “Have you seen Sam?”
“Yes, of course. I am her pastor.”
“What did she say?” Henry kept himself from sounding frantic. “Anything about me?”
“Are you asking if Samantha saw you?” the pastor asked, patient as always. “It would perhaps be helpful, and certainly faster, if you said what you meant. Remember last time how we discussed trust?”
“Sorry,” Henry said, looking down. “So, did she?”
“Yes, Samantha saw you. Or something. She had no idea what and didn’t believe her own eyes. She assumed she was drunk. Or losing her mind. Maybe having a nightmare. It’s not as though you look like yourself.”
Henry swallowed. “Did she see my face?”
“As I said, Samantha’s not even sure what she saw.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it was like looking into your eyes, then suddenly not. Like you were there, then weren’t. She was freezing, but the feeling disappeared and then she was so warm she had to turn on the AC. She started crying harder than she already was. On her third hour of being drunk, Samantha opened another bottle.”
“That’s quite the confession.”
“You know Samantha. Better than I do.”
“Was she mad?”
“Mad? No.” Pastor Owen shook his head. “Not angry. But quite upset. This is hard for her, Henry. I suggest you stay away, at least for now. No good can come from your visits. You will only hurt her further.”
“What would you say if I said you sound like a demon I know?”
“I would say you should mind what you say, or that perhaps all thoughts aren’t worth your breath.” The pastor’s mouth set, thin as a splinter. “The angels, outside the church, Henry. Did I see that?”
“Yeah, seems they’re God’s dogcatchers or something, coming along to collect demons. My good friend Satan’s Little Helper appeared to beat up the bad guys and whisk me into the sunset.”
“You mean the good guys.”
“Whatever.”
“So I did see what I thought?” The pastor swallowed, but not in awe, exactly. “There were angels outside my church?”
“Not exactly angels,” Henry corrected. “The demon said they were Trackers.”
“Trackers?”
“Yeah, a sort of angel who comes to this plane, to Earth, to track and kill my kind.” Henry wondered if a monster could look as uncomfortable as he felt. “I’m not the expert on any of this, Pastor. I don’t even believe the words leaving my mouth. I would’ve thought this was bullsh … er … whatever, a week ago, or however long it’s been since … you know.”
Like always, the pastor cut to the meat of what Henry was trying to say. “What are you hoping for, Henry? Why don’t you move on? Why are you here? Does the presence of angels tell you nothing?”
Henry squirmed while the pastor patiently waited for an answer. Then finally he said, “I’m going to kill the men involved with Amélie’s murder. Everyone who ruined my life.”
Pastor Owen spoke slowly, each word paving a path to his quiet accusation. “You’re killing more than just the men responsible, though, aren’t you Henry? Or is another Hooded Angel guarding Burg City’s dark alleys?”
Henry wasn’t surprised. If anything, it was the question he had come to Burg Spires to answer.
“Yes,” he nodded. “That’s me.”
Henry waited for Pastor Owen’s judgment, but the man said nothing.
“It’s terrible,” Henry said, unable to meet the pastor’s eyes. “I have this horrible need to kill bad people. More than kill them. Destroy their bodies and feed from their… life force. Dark energy, I don’t know. It feels like I’m even supposed to kill innocents. But I can’t do it.”
“You must stop, Henry. All of it. What you are doing will get you killed and send you to Hell, or back into Purgatory where Heaven’s gates will stay closed to you forever.”
“Aren’t they already?”
The pastor turned. “That’s not for us to decide. Only God can say. Let Him do His work. Have faith in Him, and you will one day join your family, including Samantha, in His Kingdom. You can’t save the world, Henry. You’ll kill yourself trying.”
“God’s asleep at the wheel,” Henry said. “So I’m pitching in. A curse doesn’t make me incapable of goodness.”
As if he didn’t want to argue, the pastor changed the subject.
“Are you any closer to finding these killers?”
“I’m following a lead tonight.” Henry raised his eyes to the pastor. “But I wanted to come here first.”
“Let it go, Henry. Go back to Purgatory before you do something you can’t undo.”
Henry settled deeper into the darkness. “I gotta go. The things I can’t undo aren’t getting done by themselves.”
Pastor Owen opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Henry slipped to a faraway shadow.
“I’m going,” Henry said as he fled.
“Where?” Pastor Owen called out.
“To do God’s work,” Henry said with the closest thing to a smile that he could manage.
As Henry hit the sidewalk, Samantha’s Cayenne pulled into the parking lot.
Is she here to help with rehearsals or is she early to watch the play?
It was a monument to misery, her being a part of or watching a play without Amélie in it. Henry imagined Sam leaving the church after the final bow, driving home in tears, then crawling into bed alone, thinking of the full stage that was so horribly empty without her daughter.
His heart stopped in his chest as he stood, wrapped in shadow, tempted to go back and see her. He remembered the pastor’s words.
No good can come from your visits. You will only hurt her further.
Henry disappeared before she left the Porsche.
He had to get far away, before he lost the strength to stay silent.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Henry raged all the way to the Raven’s Club. Seething. Boiling beneath his skin and wondering what he would do once he got there. Revenge was sweet, and he could practically taste it.
Henry had never heard of the Raven’s Club before the broadcast, though that wasn’t surprising. He made The Burg home back when he was a chubby college dropout, lasting roughly halfway through his freshman year before moving to the big city and bigger dreams. Though plenty familiar with filthy clubs with sticky floors and restrooms out of Trainspotting, his places always had a stage. A club without one, to Henry, was just goddamned depressing.
For some odd reason, and almost exactly as Boothe promised, Henry didn’t have to check the phonebook, or do anything beyond following the musky scent of personal murder leading him straight to Raven’s.
The place looked so filthy, Henry thought it should’ve had a sewer grate for a front door. Two bouncers stood on either side of the entrance as Henry stood across the street staring from behind his hoodie’s shadows.
Both bouncers were massive, guarding the grimy front. A short line of what looked like hookers and johns waited to enter. Henry would bet his ticket to Heaven that admission wasn’t worth the wait.
Still, he wanted in. He eyed the entrance, the bouncers, and the narrow margin between them. Too small for a thought, let alone large enough for Henry to squeeze through.
He waited for several minutes, growing too impatient to wait through another. He slipped to a shadow hanging over three painted women near the front of the line, standing beside a guy who looked like he had full custody of all three. In front of the trio stood what had to be the sleaziest couple Henry had ever seen. Drawing the shadows around him, rendering him almost invisible, Henry slipped behind the skank and yanked her skirt to the floor. Narrow cut thong panties over a tattoo creeping from the sides of her underwear. Pubic hair stubble sparkling in the neon lights.
Holy fuck. I’ve seen a lot of shit, but never a pussy tattoo!
Henry didn’t have time to figure out the design.
Maybe a butterfly, or more appropriately, a moth. The woman screamed, reeled around, and slapped the guy standing in the middle of the three girls across the face.
He reeled back, hanging onto his ladies to keep from falling over. “The fuck you think you’re doing, bitch?”
“Me?” the skank screamed. “What the fuck are you doing, you pig?”
One of the other women joined the fight, her thick thighs jiggling with the force of stomping forward. Screaming and shoving, everyone turning to eye the commotion. Henry flew one shadow closer to the door.
As expected, one of the two bouncers took action. With a heavy sigh, he waded into the line, leaving only one man guarding. Henry slipped inside, wondering what sort of trashy club doing shit business on the dingiest end of Burg City would need two mastodons guarding the door.
Inside, Henry’s mouth watered at the reek of misery and sorrow wafting from the crowd like freshly baked pie. He lurked in the shadows, staring out at the writhing sea of potential victims and hearing Boothe’s voice.
Follow your instincts, Henry.
Boothe in his ear made it easy for Henry to lie to himself. There were a hundred and one reasons why it would be okay, and maybe wonderful, to take life like candy from a jar. Henry inhaled the aroma, his eyes fluttering closed, and for the first time, thought he might not have the willpower to stop himself from sating his hunger.
Surely, the alcohol-and-sweat-soaked cesspool harbored untold opportunity.
Henry had come to find the men who murdered his daughter, but as he drifted from one shadow to another, he found himself wanting to sample the menu. So many people brimming with anger, hate, and self-loathing. All you can eat at the Suffering Buffet.
As Henry was wondering if he’d be able to stay on task, he saw what he’d come looking for. Not just a clue, but one of the goddamned men he’d hoped to find.
Bulldog, one of the three thugs that had destroyed his life. He sat on the other side of the writhing dance floor, hitting on a tiny black-haired girl with itty bitty tits and a half-pound of metal in her face.
Found you.
Henry watched Bulldog work. For the first few minutes, the chick put him off. Finally, she accepted whatever sleazy offer he’d whispered in her ear with a grin, the point of a black-painted nail in her teeth. Then they started grinding next to the table. Lost in a sea of sweating dancers, mashing uglies for two songs before disappearing into the bathroom. The sign over the door designated neither male nor female. Just a crooked plaque of fading letters. SHITTER. Henry had no interest in seeing whatever was happening behind the closed door, but four minutes later Bulldog came out smiling.
He went up to the bar and whispered something to the bartender, who handed him a drink without waiting for anything back. Bulldog downed it with a smile then left, weaving through the crowd to a side door that opened onto a small parking lot.
Henry followed.
Outside, he was less certain. Most of Henry wanted to peel the skin from the murderer’s bones. Pull back his hoodie just to hear the depths of the man’s terror. But he shook his head.
Be patient. No rush in killing him. Wait until it’s safe so you can question him and find the third man.
The one you didn’t see.
No van for Bulldog. He climbed into an old Dodge Charger parked in the back, facing the street. He gunned the engine like an asshole and tore into a gap in traffic.
Henry dropped deeper into the shadows, stretching through the darkness to keep pace.
Bulldog drove for a mile or so, with Henry immediately behind, struggling to maintain his speed while staying cloaked in shadows, even as cars passed by. As Bulldog hung a left, aiming his Charger for the riverfront, Henry wanted to scream. He was hungry and pushing himself to stay in shadow form while chasing a car at breakneck speed. His mind scorched fatigue. Dizziness brought vomit into his mouth, and his path veered from the street.
He stood on the sidewalk, holding his stomach. He gasped and swallowed, fear and anger breaking his hold on the shadows.
He thought he might lose Bulldog but aimed his rage toward his own fucking uselessness. Samantha’s scream echoed in his mind. Amélie’s wide eyes stared in accusation. A second wind rose from the heat of Henry’s shame, and he shot after the Charger, running fast enough to catch Bulldog as he made a right from Aberdeen onto Riverfront.
Bulldog turned and opened up, rocketing down the empty street. Henry pushed harder, slinging from one shadow to the next, gaining speed with every fresh dive into darkness.
Bulldog’s driving went from aggressive, to erratic, to downright manic. He had left Raven’s like an asshole. Now he was driving flat-out crazy. Henry would have thought Bulldog drunk, except the Charger never actually seemed to be out of control. At least, not until Henry nearly lost him.
He had a hard time keeping up with the vehicle’s speed, but also because Bulldog was swerving so much. Henry had to make sure he didn’t zigzag into the wrong side of Bulldog’s turns. He could take a tremendous amount of punishment and healed like magic, but there was a limit to everything, and he wasn’t sure if getting slammed by several tons of metal at nearly one hundred miles per hour would be his.
After several blocks, Henry realized Bulldog was joyriding, racing down the riverbank, fishtailing for fun. But something about it, maybe even everything, seemed intentional.
He knows he has a tail.
The fucker wasn’t going to toy with him. There was one cat and one mouse. After another minute of running, Henry was done allowing the asshole in front of him to mistake who was who.
The Charger slewed around a corner. Bulldog floored it. The ass end of the car swung around, tires squealing with missing traction. Henry smiled. Raced to the side street as Bulldog pulled out of the skid.
Henry was two blocks ahead, certain the bastard would keep racing forward. He leapt to the side of a warehouse and pivoted back toward a light post on the corner, where he scampered to its top to perch like a gargoyle. The Charger straightened out below him, and Henry dove onto the hood, creasing the metal and shattering the windshield.
His weight drove the front bumper into the street. Rubber screeched against asphalt. A crush of metal, deafening as the Charger made a trio of somersaults, tumbling over Henry’s head before landing upright about a half block away.
Bulldog screamed in the cabin, but to Henry’s agitated surprise, the murdering asshole didn’t sound scared. He sounded angry.
Henry was at the driver’s side in two seconds. He launched his fist through the window, showering Bulldog’s laughing face with glass. He didn’t even seem to mind when Henry unbuckled him, yanking him out through the broken window and dropping him onto the asphalt.
Still, the killer laughed.
A hard enough hit can silence the loudest fucker in the chorus, but when Henry launched his foot in between the murderer’s legs with a demon’s strength, Bulldog kept right on laughing. A maniacal shriek grew into a howl. Tears poured from both of his eyes.
Henry looked up and down the empty street, grateful the dickhead had chosen the long straightaway beside the river. He grabbed a handful of Bulldog’s hair and dragged him to the edge of the street. He dropped him over the side. Bulldog sprawled on the concrete pier in a crunching spread that only stopped his laughter for seconds. A choked cough. A gasping breath, and the fucker started right back up.
Henry landed with a foot on either side of Bulldog’s hips. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slung toward the water. He slid his fingers around the man’s throat and lifted his upper body over the river. He put his knee on Bulldog’s lap and drove his head underwater, bending him back until his ribs creaked. Henry shared in Bulldog’s lunacy, grinning as he held the man under until the final second when he remembered the murderer might still be of use. He yanked Bulldog back, pulled off his own hood, and said, “I’m Henry Black. Remember me?”
Recognition flickered in the man’s watery red eyes.
“Satan sen
t me back to find you, fucker. Tell me where to find the third man with you that night.”
Bulldog found his sense of humor again and grinned like a lunatic, water squeezing between his teeth.
“Tell me who he is, or you’re dead!” Henry dunked his head and watched the bubbles.
Bulldog still laughed even as he choked on water and gasped for air.
Henry didn’t know what to do in the face of such insane indifference.
What is it about these fuckers in this gang that they laugh as I beat the shit out of them? Are they all crazy fucks?
He was tempted to kill the man, then return to Raven’s and wait for another lead. But then he saw the tattoo. The circle, with the F and C inside. It didn’t entirely surprise him. He’d figured the men shared a gang. Still, this was as good a chance as he would likely get to find out more about the tat.
He pulled Bulldog out again and held his outstretched arm by the wrist. “What the fuck is this?”
He coughed up water, curling into his heaving abdomen. The coughing trailed into laughing, so Henry snapped the fucker’s arm, right at the tattoo, popping the bone from the murderer’s skin. Bulldog’s shriek finally brought the laughter to a halt. Henry snarled and waited for him to speak.
Bulldog panted with his eyes squeezed shut, but as soon as he caught his breath, instead of talking, he laughed.
Henry almost dropped him into the river out of frustration. He growled, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” Bulldog said, haunting Henry with his smile. “You’re too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To stop us. We knew you were coming, Henry. But that’s okay, because although we may not be many, we are prepared.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your wife’s at the church now, right?”
Henry’s heart froze in his chest.
Why the hell is he asking about Sam?
How does he know where she is?
“What?”
“Yeah, I thought so. You’re too late, Punchline.” His smile died, and he looked up at the sparkling sky.