Angel City

by Jon Steele

  “Okay if I just go in?”

  The steps retracted and the door of the bus closed.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Harper grabbed the latch, heard music from beyond the door.

  Violins and a piano playing a progression of descending chords around a tonic note. Wasn’t the same tune as the band in the club. It was soft, no percussion, floating. But it had the same feel—deep within the sound was that same droning chant. Harper opened the door, saw a well-appointed cabin of black leather sofas and chairs anchored to the red carpeted floor. A long desk lined one side of the cabin. It was topped with Apple laptops and monitors, a high-tech microphone. Huge speakers were mounted on either end of the desk. Between the speakers was a rack of DVD and CD units, reel-to-reel tape machines. There was a man sitting at the desk in a swivel chair. His back was to Harper. He had a shock of white hair, tied in a long ponytail. He wore denim overalls over a red-checked shirt. He didn’t turn around as Harper entered the cabin, but he raised his left hand, index finger in the air, acknowledging his presence and telling him, Hang on a second.

  Harper’s eyes shifted to the green and red lights flashing down the line of equipment. The needles of meters on one reel-to-reel bounced up and down as the wheels turned and rolled tape at fifteen inches per second. Must be the source of the music, Harper thought. The man hit a switch on the desk and the music from the speakers cut. Same moment, a sign above the cabin door lit up red: ON AIR. The man leaned into the microphone, eased up one fader on the sound mixer.

  “It’s called A Symphony Pathétique from the neoclassicist drone collective known as A Winged Victory for the Sullen. Wherever you are in space and time, you’re tuned to the last radio station on planet Earth, and yes, it’s true: Locomotora is performing tonight in downtown Toulouse. But fear not if you can’t make it, because we’ll be presenting the gig live in about five hours. Spread the word. Meantime, we’re winding back the clock with the Grateful Dead. Jamming at the Dream Bowl in Vallejo, California, back in 1969. February twenty-first, a soft winter’s night. Hold on to your heads, brothers and sisters, it’s ‘Dark Star,’ and I’m gonna let the concert run all the way to ‘Morning Dew.’ We’ll talk on the other side.”

  The man’s voice was laid-back and American as apple pie. He flipped the switch on the mixer, another reel-to-reel began to turn, and the cabin filled with music. More guitars and drums weaving around one another, looking for a place to connect, and when they did, the man at the desk eased down the fader on the mixer and the sound became a whisper. He pulled off his headphones, spun around in his swivel chair. He picked up a cup of tea and sipped.

  Harper saw the man was tall, from the flip-flops on his feet to the long, unkempt beard that matched the color of his hair. Lines and creases etched in the man’s face put him well into his sixties. But it was the shade of green in his eyes that gave away the man’s true age. Two and a half million years.

  “Hey there, brother,” he said. “Long time, no see. We need to talk.”

  NINETEEN

  I

  APPROACHING THE TOWN OF TARASCON-SUR-ARIÈGE, THE TWO men dressed as pilgrims making their way to Le Chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle turned south into the Vicdessos Valley. They followed a two-lane road bound by hills thick with beech and silver fir. The sky was bright, but the direct light of the sun never found their steps. They kept a steady, quiet pace as they walked, and there were the sounds of a fast-running stream and woodpeckers hammering at trees. Nearing Vicdessos and Auzat, they climbed the north-facing slope of the valley to the top of the ridge, two hundred meters above the towns. Inhabitants of the region were welcoming. They would take notice of two pilgrims who had lost their way, surely.

  “Messieurs, you should be going west to Aquitaine, to the crossing at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port,” they’d say. “You can’t cross the mountains without a guide, not here. It’s very dangerous this time of year. The storms can come quickly now. If you become lost, no one will find your bodies till the spring melt.”

  Following the ridge, they stayed clear of Goulier and the castle ruins at Montréal de Sos. The sun warmed the hilltops, and at a clearing along the ridge, Astruc and Goose saw a handful of people walking the trail to the ruins.

  What are they searching for, Father?

  Astruc knew Montréal de Sos well. He’d combed the ruins and caves many years ago, searching for the same thing the tourists were looking for now.

  “Hope. They’re searching for hope.”

  Clear of the towns, they descended the ridge and joined a stretch of asphalt with no painted lines or passing traffic. A yellow sign, almost hidden in overgrown scrub, marked the road as the D8. It was quiet here; the road could pass for abandoned. They walked, leaning into their steps as the grade began to rise. By the time they reached the hamlet of Marc, seven kilometers south, they’d reached an altitude of eleven hundred meters. They’d also reached the place where all roads ended; there were only rugged tracks and mountain trails. From here, the land quickly climbed another two thousand meters to the crest of the Pyrenees.

  The hamlet was very quiet. Most of the inhabitants had moved down to lower altitudes to escape the coming winter. Already, in the shadows where Astruc and Goose walked, a chilling cold seeped down from the peaks of Rouges de Bassiès, Montcalm, and d’Éstats.

  Could we stop a moment, Father?

  Astruc looked at the sky. The sun was sinking, but there was still an hour of good light. He pointed to a wooden bench outside one of the dwellings. Goose let his backpack slip from his shoulders. He pulled the hoodie from his head and slumped onto the bench.

  “What is it, Goose?”

  My eyes. I can’t see clearly.

  Astruc took off his backpack, opened it, and found an auto-injector. He undid the needle cap, set the injector on Goose’s thigh, and hit the release. The potion acted quickly. Goose’s vision returned.

  It’s better now, Father. Thank you.

  “We waited much too long. I’ll give you another shot before you sleep.”

  If the Dark Ones find us, they’ll never believe I’m the savior of men.

  Astruc knew Goose was making a joke, despite speaking the truth. He could see it in the boy’s pale eyes.

  “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Goose, but it is your duty.”

  I know, Father.

  Astruc rubbed the boy’s head.

  “You know what the Dark Ones will do to you if they find you.”

  Goose reached into his leather jacket, pulled a sharp dagger from its harness.

  Yes, Father, but you trained me well. Even a savior of men must know how to kill.

  Astruc looked at the boy’s eyes, checking him for light. So fragile, Astruc thought. But then again, had not both of them, had not the entire world, been crippled in the never-ending war between darkness and light? A war that had done nothing but turn paradise into a wasteland of hungry ghosts?

  “Tomorrow, we’ll cross Heaven’s Gate and reach the other side of the Pyrenees. Tomorrow we will complete our mission. Then we’ll continue our trip to Le Chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle.”

  Goose sheathed the dagger.

  And then you will rest, won’t you, Father? Then you’ll be able to sleep.

  “I’ll sleep, Goose, when I am forgiven of my sins.”

  II

  HANG ON, ARE YOU TELLING ME THE PRIEST IS ONE OF US?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Krinkle said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I told you, he’s fucked up.”

  “Define ‘fucked up.’”

  “As in the opposite of ‘all is well.’”

  “I watched him kill an innocent man.”

  “He’s killed lots since he lost it. Mostly bad guys, trying to kill him or the kid. There’s been some collateral damage.”
<
br />   “The man in Paris wasn’t collateral damage. He was a bloody file clerk in the mayor’s office of the fourteenth arrondissement.”

  “So I hear. Astruc thought he was working with you. He thought Gilles Lambert was one of the Dark Ones.”

  “The what?”

  “We’re all the same to him. Good guys, bad guys. He thinks you and I are as evil as the enemy. In his head, we’ve enslaved mankind with our war. You think about it, you think he may have a fucking point.”

  Harper flashed back to Astruc in the cavern beneath Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Saw the big man speak those very words: the Dark Ones. He thought about it. Wasn’t easy. He was still trying to get his head around the fact that the hippie leftover from the 1960s, the one wearing the denim carpenter overalls and flip-flops and sitting on a decked-out bus in Toulouse, was one of his own kind. Then the real surprise dropped: So was Father Christophe Astruc, OP.

  “What about the kid?”

  “George Muret?”

  “Astruc calls him Goose.”

  “That’s what the locals called him in his neighborhood when he was growing up. He had it tough.”

  Harper stared at him.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Mi casa es tu casa, hermano.”

  Harper fumbled in his coat for his cigarette case. By the time he had a cigarette to his lips, Krinkle had a flame at the ready.

  “How the hell do you guys do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “The fire thing.”

  Krinkle opened the palm of his hand. He was holding a small gold-plated lighter.

  “You think I was management?”

  “Are you?” Harper said.

  “Hell no, brother, we work for the same suit.”

  “Inspector Gobet of the Swiss Police?”

  “Is that what you call him? Is that what he is to you, a Swiss cop?”

  “You telling me he isn’t?”

  Krinkle scratched his head.

  “I think management is what it needs to be, and I think it’s never the same thing to any of us.”

  “So what’s management to you?”

  Krinkle formed his hand like a gun, aimed at the kill spot above Harper’s right eye.

  “Bang.”

  Message received: I could tell you but . . .

  Harper drew on his fag.

  “Just out of curiosity, how do we know we’re talking about the same member of management?”

  Krinkle reached in the pouch of his overalls, pulled out a pack of smokes. No brand, no logo. He flipped the top, gave the pack a jerk, caught a gold-filtered fag in his lips, and lit up. Krinkle inhaled deeply, held it a few seconds, nodded to Harper’s smoke.

  “We smoke the same brand, don’t we?”

  “Hand-rolled at a little shop behind the Ritz in Paris?”

  “Check.”

  Harper looked around the bus.

  “Mind if I ask what it is you do, exactly? The band, the music, drawing angels on sidewalks and T-shirts, this radio setup?”

  Krinkle sipped his tea.

  “Communications, inspiration. Taking the sounds of men and tossing them into the sky.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Radio waves travel forever through time and space, brother.”

  “Does that mean there’s something out there listening?”

  Krinkle shrugged, had a swig of tea.

  “Just doing what I’m told to do.”

  Harper took another hit of radiance.

  “Right, so the kid, Goose, had it tough. What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I heard you’re pretty good with hunches.”

  Harper held up his bandaged hands. “You heard wrong. What do you know about the kid?”

  “Same thing none of us did, until I paid a visit to the administration office of a certain school for the deaf in Toulouse. Today, on my lunch break. The school’s near the cathedral.”

  The school Goose attended, where he met Astruc, Harper thought.

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It was lunchtime, this is France, no one was there. That’s why I went when I did. Let myself in, searched the office. Went to the file room in the cellar, dug around through the archives. Nothing on the kid.”

  “So how . . .”

  “Because on the way out, I looked around. Figured the dimensions of the cellar to the floor space of the upper floor. Didn’t look right. I found a false wall hiding a big fucking bank vault. A Mosler, with a forty-seven-thousand-pound door.”

  “Sounds big.”

  “Isn’t about big, it’s about solid. There were a few Moslers in Hiroshima when the Americans dropped the nuke. Every one of the vaults survived the blast.”

  “So cracking nuke-proof safes is a communication skill in your line of work?”

  “Sometimes. Let me tell you, there’s some nasty shit in there. Shit Holy Mother Church does not want the world to see.”

  “Like what?”

  Krinkle smoked.

  “The one you call Gobet said you’d ask that question, and I’m to tell you it’s none of your concern in the greater scheme of things.”

  “And in the lesser scheme of things?”

  “The kid’s father isn’t the kid’s father.”

  Harper thought about it.

  “The kid is a half-breed.”

  “Bingo, brother. Got a hunch on who the real father is?”

  III

  THEY FOLLOWED A CASCADING STREAM UP THE MOUNTAINSIDE AS the light began to fade. The rocks were wet with misty spray, and they climbed carefully. Three hundred meters up, they reached a clearing bordered by a rock-faced cliff on one side and a line of stunted silver fir on the other. Ten meters above, a gush of water spilled over a crag and crashed into a churning pool. A roe deer was drinking from the pool and didn’t hear the approach of the men at first. Then its ears twitched and the animal looked up. Astruc and Goose stopped and watched the deer. Its coat was rust-colored, its face was gray, and there were erect antlers atop its head.

  Goose signed, Genus and species: Caprelous caprelous. It’s a young male. Three to four years old.

  Astruc held his voice and signed, How can you tell its age?

  Its antlers don’t have branches yet. I think antlers are funny things. I liked reading about them and seeing the pictures. That’s why I know.

  Astruc nodded, marveling again at how Goose never forgot anything he’d seen or read.

  “Then it must be true,” Astruc said.

  His voice carried through the clearing, and the deer heard it and darted into the pine trees. A small shelter stood a hundred meters away at the base of the cliff. Stone-walled, slate-roofed, simple wooden door. There were shelters like this all across the Pyrenees. They were marked on maps as le refuge. Once only known to smugglers, then to the Spanish Republicans fleeing Fascism, now they were used by tourists from around the world who came to trek across the rugged mountains during the summer months.

  Astruc led the way to the shelter, found an official notice tacked to the door advising passersby that use of the shelter was interdit without an official permit from the commune authorities in Auzat. But it was autumn now, and the pass at Heaven’s Gate was closed. There would be no tourists coming this way, or officials from the commune checking for permits.

  They went inside.

  It was dim, damp. The only light came through a small window on the south wall. Inside were two wood-framed bunk beds with straw mattresses, either side of the shelter, and a stone fireplace built into the north wall. Goose took off his backpack, pulled his hoodie from his head. He opened the backpack, found four candles,
and anchored them in the slits of the roughly hewn floor. He lit the wicks, and the shelter glowed with warm light. He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it over one of the lower bunks. Astruc took off his own backpack, unrolled his own sleeping bag on the opposite bunk. He sat down and sighed.

  “It’s been a long day, but a blessed day for the world. Oh, Goose, what have you done with the hard drive?”

  Goose tapped the pouch of his sweatshirt.

  I’m keeping it on me, in case we need to dump our backpacks and run across Heaven’s Gate.

  Astruc smiled. “And so the student has become the teacher.”

  Goose looked at Astruc.

  I could gather wood and build a fire, Father. It would chase away the cold.

  “We’d best not. Wood smoke travels far in these mountains. We’ll endure the hardship for the night. But tomorrow, when we reach Lladorre, we’ll have a good fire, and hot food, hot tea.”

  Goose nodded happily.

  That was the plan, and so far it was going well. All they had to do was cross Heaven’s Gate and reach the shelter on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees. If the weather conditions were accurate, a massive front would move in from the Atlantic and drop three meters of snow over three days in the higher elevations. The storm would cut them off from France, and the shelter in Spain was in an isolated spot; no one would find them there. They’d already provisioned the place with new clothes and boots, supplies and communications equipment. They’d stocked it themselves as part of the preparations for their mission. Now, as they rested for the first time in weeks, they knew their work was almost done. There was only reaching Lladorre, setting up the communications gear, announcing the prophecy to the world, and declaring the men and women of paradise free from the rule of the Dark Ones. Stage three of their holy mission would be complete.

  And I will make spaghetti, Father. That will be our first meal in Spain.

  “And I’ll have a whiskey to go with it.”