by G S Fortis
Paige was frightened I would die in there. Then I emerged from the flames and collapsed on the front porch. That was when Paige sprayed me with a hose.
By the time we reach the bottom of the mountainside, the sun is rising in the east. From our position below, we can see the smoke still rising from Fiona’s property at the top of the hill, where several news helicopters hover. The normally quiet and secluded community at the top of the hills is now the focus of a lot of attention.
My gears turn, and something suddenly occurs to me. “How did they find us?” Of all the places in Los Angeles, Melchora and Santa Muerte tracked us to Fiona’s home. “No one knows we were staying at Fiona’s. And they came looking specifically for me. How did Melchora find out?”
Paige considers this. “There were only two people who knew we were staying there. Fiona…”
“Right.”
“And David.”
“Right.”
* * *
We decide to pay David a visit and confront him about the suspicious coincidence that he was the only person who knew I was staying with Fiona, yet somehow, Melchora found me. Since I’m not quite ready to confront him smelling of barbeque, and since it’s probably still dangerous to go home, Paige and I take a rideshare to the Century City mall first. I’m in dire need of warm clothes, and we could both use caffeine and breakfast. Once again, we’ve pulled an all-nighter, and we still have battles to fight.
We find a café that serves hot breakfast and hot coffee and bide our time until the first store opens at ten o’clock. We sit in the restaurant, trying to act casual despite our tattered clothes and lack of shoes and the fact that we’re covered in soot and dirt. As Paige enjoys her breakfast sandwich and the people watching that Los Angeles provides, I ask a question that’s been on my mind. “What did I look like?”
Paige stops eating and turns to me. She trembles slightly, either from the terrible memory or from the fear of telling me. No one who has ever witnessed the full episode has told me what I look like. After the first exorcism, I was rather successful in keeping myself sequestered when it was happening. But now I’ve had three episodes in the past week—two in the past twenty-four hours. That’s never happened before.
Judging by the recent aftermaths, the full demonic possession is worse now than it was when I killed Bennet. The priests never described to me what they saw, and my family banished me before I could ask. Not ever Father Ramon has seen the demon in all its unholy glory. But despite my best efforts and our success over the years, Paige has finally witnessed it.
“I want to know,” I say, coaxing her.
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to say.”
This wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “Why not?”
Paige considers her answer carefully. “I don’t want you to be afraid of yourself. I don’t want you to be afraid of being around me.”
My heart sinks. This is worse than her actually describing it. “Is it that bad?”
“It’s not what I was expecting. I mean, you’re still you. It’s still your body. Just… also…” She struggles for the right words. “Not you? Does that make sense?”
“Not even a little bit.”
She visibly deflates.
“You really don’t want to tell me?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I consider pressuring her—demanding it from her. If I did, she would probably relent. I also understand why she doesn’t want to tell me. Paige and I are a couple of orphans in this great big city, and we sometimes tread lightly around topics that might push the other away. Like she said, she doesn’t want me to be afraid of being around her. She doesn’t want me to run away. Again.
Once Bloomingdale opens, I get a pair of jeans, some boots, and a brand-new field jacket. Paige insists this new jacket be a step up in quality from what I normally get, and since she’s paying with her credit card, I’m not allowed to decline. Since last night’s fire proved that tweed is naturally fire-resistant, we opt for one made of wool. Admittedly, it fits like a glove and provides me with the perfect warmth. Paige buys herself a knit blazer with an inside pocket so she can stop carrying the Glock in her waistband.
We then walk into a salon for a quick wash and cut—something to trim off the split ends and fire-singed hair. The stylist is horrified, so we provide a generous tip for her troubles. When she has finished, I finally feel like my old self again. It’s time to meet David.
Chapter 32
____◊____
THE CENTRAL POLICE STATION is a giant monolith of redbrick in the middle of Downtown Los Angeles. A giant mural depicting the LAPD’s commitment to the community marks the entrance to the station. We walk inside the lion’s den and approach a young desk sergeant who mans the lobby.
“I’m here to see Detective David Resnick,” I tell him.
“Is he expecting you?”
I glance up at the clock. It’s eleven thirty in the morning. “No, but I’m sure he’s looking for me. Just let him know Darcy Caine is here.”
Per the desk sergeant’s recommendation, Paige and I take a seat on the bench. There are about a dozen other people here, some filling out reports, some waiting their turn to be called inside. Some of them seem to just be killing time, although that’s probably not really the case.
A minute after the desk sergeant places a call, David charges into the lobby. Without saying a word, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me in to follow. Then he immediately lets go. “What happened to your shoulder?”
“What?” I ask.
“You were shot,” he says, noticing it’s no longer in a sling.
I exchange a look with Paige. “It got better?”
He ignores my question, grabbing my hand again and leading me into the station. I take Paige’s hand, and we follow him like a chain of monkeys.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” I say.
“You’re lucky I don’t arrest you,” he mutters.
“On what charge?”
He leads us through the station bullpen. Detectives sit in cubicles, typing out police reports on old PCs, one finger at a time. There are a handful of civilians in here, probably talking about various cases of theft, assault, and worse.
“We could start with lying to me about getting shot.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Gunshots don’t just get better,” he growls. “Then I get here at eight in the morning to see—on every single goddamn news station—that Fiona Flanagan’s house burned to the ground last night.” David marches us to the back of the station. “You’re not answering my calls or my texts. You’re on thin ice, Darcy.”
He drags us to an open door and gestures inside. “Get in.”
“No.” I glare at him with my yellow eyes. “With all due respect, Detective,” I whisper, “I’d feel safer out here with witnesses.”
The surprised look on his face melts into frustration. His hand drops, and he takes a step back as he glances around the bullpen. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “Please?”
I exchange a look with Paige, silently asking her, What’s the worst that could happen? She nods, so I step inside the room.
Paige moves to follow, but David stops her with his arm. “I’d like to speak to Darcy alone.” Again, through gritted teeth, he adds, “Please?”
Now is my turn to nod to Paige. I don’t mind, and besides, I could use someone standing guard. She acquiesces, and David follows me inside and closes the door.
It’s an empty room with three chairs and a cheap table—an interrogation room. Unlike the ones on television, there’s no one-way mirror for the peanut gallery, just a dome camera on the ceiling tucked away in the corner.
I hurry to stand beneath the camera, outside the view of the lens.
David gestures to an empty chair. “Wanna have a seat?”
My feet stay planted. “Someone tried to kill us last night.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure,” I lie, not yet ready to tell him all the unbelievable details. “We were ambushed and escaped before we could see who it was.”
“Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me that you were attacked by some unseen assailant? And that this same person also caused the catastrophic fire at Fiona Flanagan’s mansion, burning it to the ground along with two acres of nearby property?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s your statement? You want me to report—”
“You are the only other person who knows where we were,” I say.
His eyes narrow as he realizes what I’m suggesting. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’ve given me nothing. But I’ve got seven dead bodies at three murder scenes—all of which I can place you at. Then this shit last night. Now you show up after dodging my calls to say you don’t trust me?”
I refuse to be put on the defensive. “It took twenty-four hours for someone to find where I was hiding.”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m the one who’s kept you out of jail for the past week?”
“Why is that?” I ask, taking two steps toward him, forcing him onto his heels. “Why have you been going through all this trouble to keep us as far away from a police station as possible?”
David’s not having it. “Because I didn’t want you in jail.” He takes two steps forward, and I back up until I bump up against the wall. His body moves in until I’m pressed against the wall. I tense up at the sensation of being cornered. Maybe I could push him off or shift out of the way. But I don’t. I don’t want to.
He looks me up and down, sensing my vulnerability. Then he asks a simple question. “Do you really think I would let anything happen to you?”
I swallow, not sure how to answer. Deep down inside, I can’t imagine that David would want to see me hurt. Then again, it’s the people I trusted most who have hurt me the most.
“I don’t know,” I say.
David leans in close, his voice barely a whisper. “I was protecting you.”
I’m acutely aware of how close his chest is to mine. I can feel the heat of his body. “Why?” I ask in little more than a whisper.
“Because you needed it.”
I take a deep breath. “Even if I did, why?”
His demeanor softens as I stare into his eyes. He struggles with what to say next—I can see him running through various responses in his head. I think about what he could say and what I want him to say.
Just say you care.
He steps back, creating some distance. “It’s my job.”
I try to hide my disappointment, but it’s not a good effort. Detective David Resnick reads me like a guilty suspect. “I didn’t tell anyone where you were. You have to believe I’m trying to keep you safe. That’s all.”
He didn’t have to add that last part, but I nod, accepting his answer. “Someone knew how to find us,” I say, trying to steer us back to business. “Only the four of us knew.” I meet his eye again. “Right?”
David’s eyes widen in realization, and he snaps his fingers. “Come with me.” He opens the door to the bullpen. I compose myself before following, making sure my eyes are dry.
Paige intercepts me the minute I step out. “What’s wrong?” I wonder whether it’s that obvious or if she’s that good a friend. I hope it’s the latter.
“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Paige and pulling her as I follow David. “But I think he has a hunch.”
David approaches an empty cubicle then moves to a second and third cubicle. “Where is everyone today?” he calls to no one in particular. Another officer walks by, and David turns to him. “Simmons! Did anyone hear from Snyder yet?”
Simmons shakes his head. “Nothing yet, Detective.”
David turns to me.
“You told your partner?” I ask.
“I had to. He was threatening to file a complaint with the captain that I was knowingly releasing a suspect in a murder case back onto the streets.”
“Then where is he?” I ask, looking around. “You thought he would be here. Why isn’t he?”
David looks around then pulls out his cell phone. He dials, and I can hear the phone ringing on the other end while he waits. A woman’s automated voice picks up on the other end—voicemail.
“Damn it.” He hangs up and starts marching out of the bullpen. “Let’s go,” he calls back without looking at us.
Paige and I hurry to keep up. “Where are we going?” she asks.
“Ed’s house,” David says.
Chapter 33
____◊____
ONCE AGAIN, I FIND myself in the back seat of David’s Charger while Paige sits shotgun. The car rumbles along Sunset Boulevard—the crappy part in the east, not the nice part in the west.
“How long has Ed been your partner?” I ask, now curious about their history.
“A few months. Since right when I started Homicide.”
“So you don’t know him that well?”
“He’s a veteran on the force. Been with LAPD for twenty years. He worked Gangs and Narcotics, Vice, and Robbery-Homicide. The man’s a legend.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
David shoots me a look through his rearview mirror. “I know him well enough.”
He steers his car into the affluent suburbs of Franklin Hills. The streets are narrow and winding, so he drives slowly up the hillside to avoid hitting parked cars and retaining walls that prevent the entire mountain from sliding down.
We arrive at a large home near the top. From the outside, it looks like a typical Spanish-style Los Angeles home. A long path of terra-cotta tiles leads up the stucco-walled fortress. Red-clay tiles top every inch of the home, including the posts and overhangs.
“This is a nice house,” Paige remarks. It’s easily a multimillion-dollar home and pairs nicely with the brand-new Jaguar parked in the driveway.
“Really nice. You cops must make a lot more than I thought,” I say.
“Take it easy,” David scolds.
“Tell me again that he’s clean.”
David turns to me when we arrive at the doorstep. “Just… don’t say anything.”
I zip my mouth shut.
“Too soon,” Paige mutters to me.
He rings the doorbell. We wait. Nothing.
He rings again then tries the door handle. It’s unlocked, and the door swings right open.
Without hesitating, David pulls out his gun. “I want you two to stay right—” He looks at Paige. I turn and see that she’s holding her gun, too. “What are you doing?”
“Backup?”
“Put that away.”
Paige holsters the gun.
David looks at me. “Are you armed?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I answer. Paige and I exchange a look. Hopefully.
He shakes his head. “Wait in the car. No, wait.” He looks like he’s mulling the options. “Shit.”
David pulls out his cell and dials three numbers. “Hi, this is Detective David Resnick with the LAPD. Yes. I’m at 254 Ronda Vista Drive, requesting a black-and-white for a possible B and E. I’m going inside. Please advise. Thanks.” He hangs up and turns to us. “Stay close. And don’t touch anything.”
Just before he goes in, he hesitates. “If you do have to use that thing,” he says, glancing at Paige’s gun, “you know how to use it, right?”
Paige scowls. “I’ve used a gun before.” That is technically true. She tried to shoot a death saint, almost shot my foot in an abandoned house, and tried to murder a witch.
David’s not entirely sold. “Just keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” He goes in first, gun drawn and pointed. I follow with Paige behind me. She keeps her hand on her gun but leaves it holstered. We move carefully throughout the house, clearing every room.
Judging by the decor and the view of downtown LA, there’s no way this cop is clean. David
carefully sweeps the room, gun aimed wherever his eyes are directed. As he looks around, I notice something on the stairs.
“David,” I whisper, pointing.
His eyes zero in on what I’m seeing. On the cream-colored carpet that runs down the steps are red footprints—boot prints, to be more precise. They look like faded red stamps on the fabric, with the toes pointed out. The tracks are more pronounced on the top steps, growing paler toward the bottom.
I recognize these prints. These aren’t from normal casual boots. They’re flat with pointed toes. Cowboy boots. And only one person I know wears cowboy boots—Hugo.
We move upstairs slowly. At the landing, David sweeps the area and ensures that no one is waiting down a hall or in a closet. The prints saturate the carpet in a deep crimson hue.
They come directly from the bedroom. The door is ajar. Through the opening, I can see red stains on the white bedspread.
We move forward in unison. David keeps the barrel of his gun pointed high, and he gently nudges the door with his foot. Inside the room is a horrific sight.
Two dead bodies are in there. The first is Snyder, still in his pajamas, lying supine on the couch. The second is a woman, heavyset and wearing a nightgown, lying on the floor. Both of them have huge holes in their chests. Pools of blood are everywhere, with one pair of footprints leading directly from the bodies.
“Christ,” David mutters. He looks around the room, still aiming his gun. “They could still be here.”
Paige and I have been through enough in the past few days to know that no one is here. We stand idly by until David finishes his sweep. Then we walk back outside, careful not to step on the prints.
David looks up and down the street. “Where’s the damn car?”
It takes ten minutes for the black-and-white to arrive. David chastises the two uniformed officers the moment they step out of the vehicle. “What took so long? There is a dead police officer in this house!”
The two officers exchange a look. The female cop responds. “Haven’t you heard what’s going on?”