Rusty Nails (The Dade Gibson Case Files)

by Jason Brannon

  “Somehow,” Dade said. “I think it might be a good idea to put that on your next list of questions for the dry-erase board. And put it high on the list of priorities so he doesn’t waste these precious messages on things like his secret recipe for marinara or the best way for balding men to grow hair.”

  “Very well,” Louise Hartwell said with a frown. “Why don’t you go ahead and have a look around.”

  She stood outside the crypt like a stone guardian while Dade and Liz made their investigations. Dade insisted that he needed an unbiased look at the tomb first and foremost. Truth be told, he felt that there were some things that needed to be said. Things that couldn’t be discussed in front of Mrs. Hartwell.

  “Do you believe that whole bit about Richard Edgemore and the angel?” Dade whispered.

  “It’s hard to say. I mean, angels seem to be the common thread running through all of this.”

  “Mrs. Hartwell hasn’t exactly been straightforward with us so far,” Dade reminded her. “The information she’s giving us is selective and abbreviated. I don’t buy the story about them being married or in love or whatever you want to call it either. She’s after something, and Richard Edgemore may well be the key. But the angle on this is all wrong.”

  “I don’t believe the whole story either. But I do believe that angels have something to do with all of it. I also think-”

  Dade’s hand over her mouth stopped her from saying anything else. Mrs. Hartwell’s dark, mammoth figure loomed in front of the immaculate stained glass front of the mausoleum. Because of the distortion of shadow, it was impossible to tell whether or not she was listening. But the walls weren’t so thick that she couldn’t pick up snatches of conversation if she wanted to. Dade motioned Liz a little deeper into the crypt where the glass gave way to marble and dead remains. She could still eavesdrop if she noticed anything interesting being said, but at least now, she would have to strain for what she heard.

  In the back of the vault there was no dust on the floors, no dust on the marble vaults, no dust anywhere save for just a little heap of what looked like powdered chalk in the corner furthest from the entryway. Dade approached it carefully. Although the small hillock of pale dust bore an uncanny resemblance to blackboard dust, there was one other thing that came to mind which, if ground up or given time to decay, might produce a similar result.

  “What does that look like?”

  “Bones,” Liz said with some certainty. “But what is that above it?”

  At first, Dade didn’t see what she was talking about and then as she stepped out of the light, it became perfectly clear. The character had been chiseled on the mausoleum wall just above the small heap of white powder and bore an uncanny resemblance to the tattoo they had seen on Louise Hartwell’s buttock. Digging a small note tablet and pencil out of his jacket pocket, Dade made a quick rubbing of the strange dark letter and studied it for a moment more, thinking that there was something familiar about it. After searching for a bit longer and not finding anything else of importance, they decided to call it quits. When they emerged, however, Mrs. Hartwell was gone. Still, she’d left something behind. There, tucked cozily beneath the windshield wiper, was another photograph of Dade’s father and sister.

  “Don’t forget,” a note on the back read. “Those bones won’t find themselves.”

  Chapter 11

  What had merely been another job before, was now a matter of personal business, and Dade was more determined than ever to find out some answers. Once back at his office, he grabbed a beer from the small office refrigerator and turned on his computer. Then he sat down at his desk, studying the various Post-It notes that Liz had stuck to every available inch of the monitor. Obviously foreseeing potential difficulties due to Dade’s lack of experience with anything technical, Liz had written out step-by-step instructions on how to do everything from e-mailing a potential client to linking to a website.

  Once the computer was fired up, Dade guided the cursor up to the location bar of the web browser and typed in an address that Louise Hartwell had mentioned. Called The Ouija Room, the site was reported to be an online commune with the dead. Only instead of moving a planchette around a game board and scribbling down the answers on a notepad, the webpage had a search engine that allowed the user to type in the name of whatever spirit he wished to speak with. Below that was a chat field where the spirit and the user could talk. It seemed sort of farfetched to Dade. But after everything he’d seen in his time as an investigator, most things usually weren’t as outlandish as they first appeared.

  He recognized a few of the runes and symbols that adorned the webpage’s background, and knew from experience that they were used in summoning the dead. So at least that part looked authentic enough. He also recognized a snippet of Sumerian he had seen once in a case involving an emailed spell that a sorceror had used to call forth a demon and attack his adversary with only a few clicks of his mouse. Maybe there was something to this website after all. Someone had certainly done their homework.

  Not really sure what he would find by using this approach, Dade hunt-and-pecked the name of Richard Edgemore into the search engine. Holding his breath and hoping that he wouldn’t feel foolish afterward, he hit the enter button and waited for the dead man’s spirit to be summoned. Within a matter of seconds Edgemore’s name flashed onto the screen followed by an impatient question mark.

  “Mr. Edgemore,” Dade pecked, wishing that Liz had stayed around to type for him. “My name is Dade Gibson.”

  “Where am I at exactly?”

  “Inside my computer.”

  “Ah, yes, modernization. Use the old crystal ball for a paperweight and play memory with the deck of tarot cards. We’re certainly advanced now, aren’t we?”

  “If you’d prefer to talk in some other fashion, we can find some other means. I understand you’ve been using a dry-erase board in the past. We could do that if you’d like.”

  “No, no, this seems to work well enough. And you mentioned a dry-erase board? Whoever told you that?”

  “Maybe I was misinformed,” Dade said with a certain amount of unease. “It doesn’t really matter anyway. What matters is that I get some answers so I can help you.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, but you must remember that my perceptions are sort of limited in my current form.”

  “Fair enough. Now, from what I hear you’re in a little bit of trouble.”

  “You could say that. Of course, if you did you would be sorely understating the problem.”

  “I’ve been hired to locate your remains,” Dade responded. “I’d say limbo isn’t much of an understatement.”

  “Quite right,” Edgemore agreed. “I understand it’s not a pleasant way to spend eternity. Did I also understand that you had been hired for this job?”

  “That’s right,” Dade said.

  “I suspected that the vultures would resort to this sooner or later.” For some reason, the fact seemed both a surprise and an inevitability.

  From what Dade had gathered so far, Edgemore didn’t have a clue that Louise Hartwell had such an interest in him. She certainly hadn’t been speaking to him with a dry-erase board. And he obviously had no previous knowledge that someone was being paid to track him down. There was some other motive at work here.

  “You spent a little time with the angels,” Dade prodded. “Could you tell me about that?”

  “They used to visit me nightly. I was a popular guy back in my day.”

  “And why was that?”

  “I had what they needed.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dade pecked at the keyboard.

  “I was rich and could get them whatever they wanted without consequence. This is a small town, you know. Money can buy lots of things, including silence and drugs.”

  “You were a pusher?” Dade said incredulously.

  “Of sorts. Some of the dissident angels were quite fond of cocaine and heroin and anything else they could get their hands on that had a numbi
ng effect. For a while, there wasn’t a hardware store in town that had a can of paint thinner to spare.”

  “That seems like a risky business.”

  “You have no idea. Sometimes a man will sell his soul for any price.”

  “Do you know who stole your remains?” Dade asked.

  “I left you a clue on one of the mausoleum walls.”

  Dade remembered the rubbing he’d made of the strange symbol.

  “I saw it,” he responded. “And made a copy of it. But wouldn’t it just be easier to tell me his name?”

  “I don’t know his name. All I could discern was that tattoo. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what they’re going to do with me. All I know is that it’s dark and cold and scary here.”

  “They haven’t made any attempts to speak with you yet?” he asked.

  “None. You’re the first person I’ve talked to in quite a while.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better I have every intention of getting your bones back.”

  “I don’t know who kidnapped me. I don’t know what the score is where you’re concerned. But I do know that you’re getting into some very suspect lines of inquiry,” Edgemore warned. “Just be certain you’re ready to get involved.”

  “I’ve been promised a sizable retainer for this job. Why is someone willing to pay me so much to find your remains?”

  “May I ask who hired you?” Edgemore asked, dodging the question.

  “Surely you know,” Dade replied.

  “It could be any number of people,” Edgemore responded. “Even in death, I know things that people would kill to know. The one thing I’m puzzled about is who is desperate enough to pay someone to track down my remains.”

  “Louise Hartwell.”

  There was a brief pause before Edgemore spoke again.

  “Ah, yes, Louise. What a dear, gentle, sweet woman. You’d do well to stay away from her.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Let’s just say she’s been making quite a few enemies as of late.”

  “Then answer this: why would anybody steal your bones in the first place?”

  “A man’s soul can be bound with bones,” Edgemore continued. “That’s why mine have been stolen. I would imagine that the angels are starting to get desperate and need some questions answered about their addictions. While holding my bones, they can ask me whatever they want and I’ll have to answer out of fear that they’ll imprison me in limbo for eternity.”

  “It sounds a bit like psychic blackmail,” Dade typed.

  “You’ve hit it on the nose, my boy.”

  “So answer this. If some of the angels are drug addicts, why don’t they just find a good twelve-step program instead of going to all of this trouble with bones and limbo and such.”

  “This is quite a bit different,” Edgemore said without bothering to elaborate. “This situation has gone far past cocaine and heroin.”

  “And Louise Hartwell obviously understands the score while I’m sitting here in the dark,” Dade said, more than a little irritated.

  “Surely, you must realize that Mrs. Hartwell is a desperate woman.”

  “Desperate for what? What kind of answers are the angels looking for?”

  “I’m not going to answer that. The moment I tell you the whole story will be the moment that someone comes after you. These are not nice people we’re dealing with here. They will torture you if they have to in order to get the answers they seek. They will torture those close to you as well. If I tell you the secret, you’ll be as good as dead. Since I’ve already crossed the void, it’s safer if I simply keep my information to myself.”

  The thought of someone torturing Liz to make her talk was enough to make him reconsider pushing for more answers.

  “I may need to talk to you again,” Dade typed. “For now, I think I’ll see what I can turn up on my own.”

  “I would advise you to be careful. There are enemies at every turn. Some of them look like enemies. Some of them look likes friends. Therein lies the danger.”

  Chapter 12

  About the only real lead Edgemore had given him was the symbol in the crypt, and Dade knew that finding out what that meant was paramount. Louise Hartwell had obviously thought it important enough to have inked onto her skin. Dade didn’t need a flashing neon arrow to know it was the key to everything.

  “If you can’t find what you’re looking for,” Liz had written along with the other three pages of instructions, “use the search option.”

  “Thanks a lot, babe,” he said aloud as he typed the word ‘letters’ into the box. But he wasn’t so sure that this was going to be any help once the results were posted. There was everything from links to the origin of the letters of the alphabet to copies of old love letters written by movie stars from the 1930’s. He tried searching for the word ‘characters’ next, and all he got for his trouble was a long list of comic book heroes, on-screen personas, and heroes and villains from famous works of literature. As a last resort, he typed ‘symbols’ into the search engine and waited patiently while it compiled the results. After a little more thought, he added the word ‘angels.’

  The first ten listings or so were useless, pointing to a complete listing of the elements of the periodic table and other frequently used abbreviations in the field of chemistry. But then he hit pay dirt. “Angelic and cabalistic symbols,” the hypertext link read.

  His search was rewarded as he scrolled down a list of symbols compiled by the Catholic Church, detailing the various orders of heavenly beings including their names written in angelic script. Pulling the scrap of paper out of his pocket, he had no trouble finding a match on the screen, but he wasn’t really prepared for the revelation that the site provided.

  “Samael,” he read silently, his voice little more than a whisper. “One of Samael’s greatest roles in Jewish lore is that of the angel of death.”

  Like a sucker punch to the gut, the memory of where he had seen that symbol before returned, stealing his wind and his wits with one blow. At that moment, he wasn’t sitting at his computer anymore. Instead, he was sitting in his old office with Jane’s head cradled lovingly in his lap, her hair wet and oily with drying perspiration. She hadn’t been dead long-fifteen minutes maybe-and he could still feel the warmth radiating off of her in waves. Yet, despite the heat, Dade shivered and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. That mark on her neck didn’t look quite so much like a bruise anymore.

  Chapter 13

  Sometimes, it’s good to have connections. Knowing Leon had definitely come in handy on more than one occasion. He had access to a lot of useful information given his choice of profession and was a good man to have beside you if a fight broke out. Normally, Dade hated to ask favors of his friends for fear of endangering them unnecessarily. But Leon was a different story. The burly black man lifted weights at least four times a week and was built like a Sherman tank. As resident bouncer at The Black Cat, it was a requirement. Of course, there was the small fact that he dressed in frilly feather boas and wore fingernail polish. That always seemed to be a moot point, however, when the brawling started. Leon could more than hold his own. That was one of the reasons Dade didn’t feel so bad about calling him.

  Because he wasn’t scheduled to go in to work for another couple of hours, Leon asked Dade to meet him at The Caffeine Cafe, a coffeehouse where a lot of college students hung out. Dade thought it a little odd to rendezvous there, but he didn’t question Leon’s choice of venue. Leon, after all, had willingly agreed to meet with him on short notice which pretty much meant that Dade owed him big time.

  Leon almost looked at home amidst the freaky dye-jobs, piercings, tattoos, and thrift-store wardrobes. Today, the feather boa was green. The nail polish had been selected to match. And then there was the small steel spike that ran upward through Leon’s eyebrow. Everything else he wore was polished black leather.

  “So why am I here, man?” Leon said. “What do you need now?”
<
br />   “I’ve got a woman that I need you to check out for me. I need background information, any kind of dirt you can dig up on her, where she lives, the whole nine yards.”

  “I thought you wanted something really demanding from me,” Leon said with a smile. “This is all second-rate investigation work. The sort of thing a really good detective could find out on his own. What‘s the name?”

  “Louise Hartwell,” Dade said, spitting the words out like he would a bitter wedge of lemon. “She hired me to find the missing bones of her husband. And if that’s not strange enough, Liz and I have already watched her blow an angel away with a snub-nosed revolver.”

  “An angel?”

  “With wings, talons, feathers, the whole nine yards. Yep, he was most definitely an angel.”

  “And the husband. Who is he?”

  “Richard Edgemore,” Dade replied.

  Leon chewed on the information like he would a tough piece of meat. “You’ve been here for a couple of weeks and already, you’re running with the bad crowd.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dade asked.

  “There are lots of stories in this town about Richard Edgemore. He’s sort of become a cult figure to some. Had quite a lot of involvement with angels. I’m not surprised that his name still comes up when there’s a mention of one. He was a pusher. Supposedly, he dealt in some sort of exotic drug that chased away guilt. The angels that were rebelling against God bought the stuff as quick as Edgemore could get his hands on it. Made them feel better about their sins and their rebellion. Or at least that was the story on the street.”

  “That explains what she told me about him being a chemist,” Dade said, making the connection.

  Leon laughed. “A chemist, huh? Well, I guess that’s one word for what he did.”