Rusty Nails (The Dade Gibson Case Files)

by Jason Brannon

  “What does that mean?” Liz asked.

  “You’re not eccentric enough,” Louise said.

  “You mean I’m not into this kind of scene,” Liz said, gesturing to all of the debauchery going on around her.

  “Basically,” Louise admitted.

  “This might be a little out of my realm,” Dade said.

  “I pay very well,” Louise said as she slid an envelope across the table.

  Dade opened the envelope slightly, his eyes widening at the sight of so much money.

  “Not enough?” Louise Hartwell asked.

  “No, it’s plenty,” he said as he reluctantly pushed the envelope back across the table. “In fact, it seems like too much for this kind of job. It feels like you’re overcompensating for some unrevealed detail.”

  “I don’t understand,” Louise said. “You’re giving the money back?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Dade admitted.

  “You’re not taking the case?” Mrs. Hartwell asked, dumbfounded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “As much as I need the money, I don’t feel like this is a job I should take. Something doesn’t click here, and I don’t know what it is.”

  “Dade,” Liz hissed, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward her so that she could whisper in his ear. “What are you doing?”

  “This sounds fishy,” Dade said. “I don’t feel good about this.”

  “Is that your final decision?” Louise asked him.

  “It is,” Dade said.

  “I’m not a woman who gets turned down very often,” Louise Hartwell huffed. It was clear from the way she clipped her words that she was furious.

  “I’m sorry,” Dade said. “I just don’t feel like I would be the best person to take your case right now.”

  “I thought these sorts of things were your specialty,” Louise said.

  “They are,” Dade said. “But so is spotting a liar, and something about your story doesn’t track.”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” Mrs. Hartwell hissed.

  “Maybe not,” Dade said, “but there’s a lot more to that story that you aren’t telling me. I don’t like working for a client that thinks it’s acceptable to keep secrets.”

  “We’re not through here,” Louise Hartwell said, standing up from the table. “I promise you that. I’m sure you’ll come around to my way of thinking soon enough.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Dade asked.

  “You’ll find out,” she said cryptically as she turned and walked away.

  Chapter 3

  The sun was a thin slice of orange that lingered on the horizon as the street lights were just beginning to flicker. Benjamin was on his way back to St. Michael’s after speaking in front of an audience of over a hundred priests, rabbis, and ministers attending a conference on modern-day miracles. He had lectured on faith healing and exorcism and done so with enough authority to walk away pleased with himself. Now, he felt like he could relax, satisfied with a job well done. He also felt like rewarding himself. His favorite all-night delicatessen was located about six blocks up, and he considered stopping there for a late snack when the headlights of a passing car lit up a nearby alley. In the shadows, Benjamin glimpsed a dirty man standing over a young boy, and that was enough to ruin his appetite.

  The twinkling street light steadied enough to cast a dull glow over the scene, and Benjamin quickly stepped behind a dumpster, hoping that he hadn’t been spotted. From what he could discern, the vagrant looked like he hadn’t bathed in quite some time. Flies circled his skin and landed on his head, burrowing through thick tangles of dark hair that were matted and oily from months without washing. He wore an old faded rock and roll T-shirt that was ripped across the chest and jeans that were tattered and soiled from months of continuous wear. Father Benjamin had seen enough of these types in homeless shelters to know what they were like on the streets. Living day to day from whatever they could scavenge from other people’s discarded trash tended to make even the most resolute person devolve into something ruthless and cold. Benjamin had seen these people do whatever it took to get their hands on a dollar, and that was the thing that frightened him the most. This man had nothing to lose.

  As he studied the scene he gasped at the sight of blood. It pooled around the boy in the alley like some mindless red amoebae. The child wasn’t crying or trembling like he would have if hurt. But there was no denying what the maroon puddle really was. Benjamin wondered how the child could have possibly been alive after bleeding so much.

  “I can smell it on you,” the vagrant said, showing his blackened teeth. “You have it in you to make me well. I’ve heard the stories, you know? This war is tearing all of us apart. They say you can give us what we need.”

  As the bum took a step forward, walking out of the shadows and into the hazy light, Benjamin noticed the large gash in the man’s chest and the green bile trickling from his lower lip. The wound was like an open mouth, eager to devour, and Benjamin couldn’t even begin to imagine how the man was still able to walk.

  Maybe all of that blood was his and not the child’s. It seemed more likely. But the bum’s shirt wasn’t spattered in red nor were his jeans crusty with coagulated blood.

  The vagrant seemed to tremble in what might have been hesitation or fear, yet his eyes never strayed from the growing puddle of blood that was spreading away from the boy. With a snarl, he pulled out an old, rusted pocket knife and pressed a hand hard against the wound in his chest. Thin trickles of blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the concrete.

  “You know what I’m going to have to do if you don’t cooperate,” the man said. “I’ve become pretty good at spilling blood during the course of this war. We all have.”

  Although he was still frightened, Father Benjamin knew he couldn’t wait any longer to act. “The police are on their way,” he said, stepping into the alley. “You should leave now.”

  “There are things in heaven and earth that you couldn’t possibly understand,” the vagrant said. “And this child is the key. You would do well to just mind your own business”

  “This is just a boy,” Benjamin protested.

  “So was Christ at one time.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what it is that you’re after,” Benjamin said, trying to keep a note of authority in his voice.

  “Just something to make me whole again. The wars are getting worse every day. I left the Kingdom stained with blood, and now the guilt is too much for me. I need solace, and this boy can give it to me. He has what I need. I need the nails.”

  Benjamin felt a brief surge of hope as the derelict closed his eyes and put his hand against the wall to brace himself. But the feeling that he had the upper hand vanished like mist on a cold, wet morning when the man began singing hymns in a low, off-key voice.

  “You’ve got options here,” the boy said, holding out both hands, palms up. Virgil stopped singing. In one of the child’s hands was a crucifix. In the other was a small baggie filled with a sparkling crimson powder.

  “Choose your salvation,” the boy said. “And choose carefully.”

  Touching the sticky red mess and shuddering, Virgil brought one finger up to his lips and let his tongue taste eternity.

  What Benjamin saw next defied what he knew to be true about the natural world. One moment the wound in the man’s chest was open and bleeding. The next, the skin was made whole again without so much as the first sign of a scar.

  “It’s a masquerade,” the man said, speaking to the child with sudden understanding. “A costume party that everyone’s going to attend. I realize that now. Nothing is what it seems. I know who you are.”

  Without warning the bum started toward the boy with his knife held out. “I have to try and stop you. I’m not so far gone yet that I don’t feel any sense of duty.”

  “I could have given you what your heart desired,” the child said. “But you’re the selfish kind. You would have gone on your merry way once you had w
hat you wanted and that’s not what this is all about. There is a bigger picture, and I won’t let you ruin that.”

  Locking eyes with the boy, Virgil smiled. But the smile was quickly replaced with a frown and then a grimace. Although there were no fires nearby that Benjamin could see, the stench of burning flesh was nearly strong enough to make him gag. He had just gotten his hand up to his nose when Virgil burst into flames, the unexplained fire consuming him from the inside out. Benjamin gasped as he saw Virgil’s T-shirt burn away from his skin, revealing a pair of sick, flimsy wings.

  Chapter 4

  After everything he had seen inside The Zodiac Club, Dade was a little on edge when he left to take Liz home, but he didn’t go straight back to his office after dropping her off. Instead, he decided to drive around for a bit, get a feel for the city. He was still new to Crowley’s Point and didn’t know his way around that well. If he was going to do much investigating in this town, he needed to know every seedy neighborhood, every slum, every coven hideout.

  With each new twist and turn through the dimly lit streets, he wondered if he had made the right decision by moving here to start a new life with Liz. Until now, he only had himself to worry about. If he crossed a mob boss or smarted off to the wrong ghetto mage, the threats would be directed his way. With Liz in the picture, the bad guys would see a new target to set their sights on. It would be a whole lot easier to get to him now. All the thugs and crooks would have to do is go for her and Dade’s entire world would come crumbling down. Liz was Dade’s Achilles heel, and he knew it. The main thing was to keep everyone else from finding out about it.

  The Toronado seemed to take each curve on two wheels. He knew that the balding tires were partially to blame. His lead foot was also responsible. No matter how many times Dade drove through a seedy unfamiliar part of town, he always wanted to outrun it and head back into the well-manicured lawns of the soccer-mom neighborhoods where two-point-five kids were the norm and the minivan was the vehicle of choice. Sometimes Dade almost imagined he was outrunning his own life. It didn’t always seem like such a bad idea. He just wished that he could pick and choose the parts of his old life that he could bring with him.

  The Normal Rockwell pastoral in his head was quickly chased away by the ragged strains of static filtering through his radio. Dade hadn’t even realized that the radio was on. He adjusted the dial and turned down the volume, but it didn’t seem to faze the old tape deck.

  Dade smacked it once with his palm, thinking that the radio had finally played its last song and given up the ghost. Then he heard his name filter over one of the stations, and his blood ran cold.

  “.........Dade.........”

  Dade’s hands were shaking so badly that he was forced to pull over to the side of the road. He barely noticed that he had parked under the neon triple-X of an adult bookstore.

  “.....Dade....” the familiar voice whispered again underneath the static.

  “I’m here,” he replied, feeling a little bit stupid for talking to a radio.

  “.......watch.....out.....for.....”

  The radio went suddenly silent.

  Moments later, it erupted with a bout of screaming and shrieking that would have rivaled the Spanish Inquisition.

  “What the hell?” Dade said. The moment the question left his lips he knew that those sorts of sounds could never come from this world. Only the afterlife held that type of suffering...and then, only for the damned.

  “......angels......”

  Dade’s blood ran cold at the mention of angels. It couldn’t be sheer coincidence.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ask…the….Egyptians…”

  “What does that mean?”

  This time when the radio went silent Dade knew it was for good.

  His hands were trembling like those of a junkie in need of a fix, and huge beads of sweat dripped from his brow. He felt like he was submerged underwater and on the verge of asphyxiation.

  Dade took deep gasps of air and rested his head on the steering wheel, desperately trying to compose himself. After he had time to collect his thoughts and his breath, Dade looked up to see if anyone had noticed his mental breakdown. Inexplicably, Dade saw the past in his rearview mirror.

  Egypt....

  In the blink of an eye, he witnessed water turning to blood, locusts ravaging the land, the sun turning black, and the shadow of an angel eclipsing the dunes, leaving the bodies of infant boys in its wake.

  The Death Angel was wreaking havoc on the Pharoah’s Egypt.

  “Angels,” Dade muttered. “What is all of this about angels?”

  He nearly jumped through the roof of his Toronado when someone tapped on his windshield in reply.

  “We got all the angels you want inside,” the dingy looking man said while scratching himself obscenely. “But you need to find a parking space and come inside. You can’t just sit out here in front of the main entrance and hope to get lucky.”

  “Um, sorry,” Dade said as he put his car into gear and backed away. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

  “You got no idea what you’re missing,” the bookstore clerk said as he hobbled back inside. “Of course, less for you means more for me.”

  Dade left the man in a cloud of dust.

  The trip back to his dingy little hotel room seemed like it took years. He kept thinking that the radio was going to start blaring messages from the netherworld or that he would glance in his rearview mirror again and see the Biblical plagues laid out before him like a snippet of film. Yet, he made it back to his hotel room without incident and wasted little time finding the bottle of Jack Daniels that he kept in his desk drawer.

  As he sat there thinking about the cryptic messages and drinking his liquor, he couldn’t help noting that the voice on the radio had been familiar. Although it was strained and blanketed in static, it was definitely a woman’s voice. A voice he knew. A jarring possibility nearly made him drop his bottle and run screaming into the night, but Dade somehow managed to keep his composure.

  He knew that voice. No doubt about it.

  But was it really his sister, Jane? After all these years, was Jane trying to warn him about something?

  The voice could have belonged to someone else. Dade kept trying to tell himself that. But in the back of his mind, he knew differently.

  The voice had certainly sounded like Jane. But was it really her? And if it was, what was she trying to tell him from the grave?

  That alone was enough to make him drink, but there was one other nagging thought that made him drain the bottle. If that, indeed, was Jane then she was in a place of torment and lamentation where she would suffer for eternity.

  Dade remembered her suicide and began to weep silently.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t long before he passed out.

  Chapter 5

  The angel of death looked at himself in the mirror and marveled at how well he had preserved himself against the ravages of time. The strong cheekbones were well pronounced. The patrician nose was still straight and noble despite numerous fights. His crimson plumage was as vibrant and eye-catching as it had ever been. And his body had never been in better shape. Samael flexed his biceps, twisted at the waist to stretch the muscles in his back, squeezed his quad muscles and bent over to feel his hamstrings pull and burn. He was massive, majestic, the kind of angel that immediately demanded respect and fear. Not like those pansy cherubim.

  He was a killing machine, a legendary figure in history responsible for more carnage and destruction than just about anybody, Lucifer included. But right now he also felt like a ruler. He felt like he could conquer the world. He felt strong enough to overthrow God Himself.

  But one thing at a time. He was getting ahead of himself.

  It was after hours at The Zodiac Club and no one was there. Samael had the place to himself and took the time to meditate on the war at hand. He spent the first few minutes reviving and manipulating a fly that one of the bartenders had killed. He
began to grow bored with that, however, after one of the fly’s wings fell off. In lieu of resurrecting all of the dead insects in the bar and forcing them to fight each other, the death angel decided to ponder his situation instead.

  To be honest, he had grown tired of his role as the world’s executioner. Killing was fine. It was necessary. Death was the road by which righteous souls found their way into Heaven and sinful souls were sucked into the lake of fire. But it was merely a means to an eternal end, and nothing more. Death didn’t mean much when you stopped to consider it. Samael was little more than a haberdasher, helping mankind shirk off the costumes of flesh and mortality and slip into their robes of righteousness or damnation. Skin and bones were little more than another suit of clothing to be cast aside when they grew too old and worn. Samael was the one who helped cast them aside. It wasn’t such a noble position when you stopped to think about it. And he had stopped and thought about it a lot lately.

  It was what he had spent his entire life doing, and to think it was all for nothing was a little.....well, depressing. That’s what made him think about rebellion. That was the sort of thing that put you on the map. Take Lucifer, for instance. You never heard about him before The Fall. And even though he ultimately lost, his betrayal of God established him as a force to be reckoned with. No longer did you hear people saying things about Lucifer the Most Beautiful Angel in Heaven. Now, when his name was mentioned, it always came with a title like The Prince of Lies or The Deceiver. That, Samael thought, was where deserved to be, in that kind of company. And little ol’ death just didn’t cut it anymore. After all, look how many ways people were beating him these days. A heart attack wasn’t even a show stopper now. It wasn’t unheard of for somebody to have two, even three coronaries and still live. And what about cancer? No way. Forget about it. In times past, cancer was more than the kiss of the grave. It was a full-fledged make out session with death complete with tongue-kissing and fornication. Now cancer was little more than a good night peck on the cheek. Science had found ways to beat cancer, and death wasn’t as feared as it used to be.