Although he had absolutely no desire to wade in the mire that sat stagnant in the grease trap, the shotgun report of heavy boots approaching was enough to convince him otherwise. He just barely had enough time to pull the grate back over the trap when Midael flung the door open. At first glance, the grease hadn’t looked to be more than knee high, but reality added about a foot and a half. Rush held his breath for as long as he could and then sucked air through his mouth hoping he wouldn’t gag. The only good thing about being stuck in the hole was that the angels wouldn’t be able to distinguish his smell from the hundreds of other horrid smells in the grease trap. Which meant that he might preserve his identity after all.
Pans were thrown across the kitchen. Ovens were overturned. Pantries were emptied, spilling what stale food the owners had left behind. Even the butcher block counter in the center of the room was torn apart for any sign of the wunderkind child.
Midael cursed and called for one of his trackers. “Where is he?”
The tracker adjusted the belt of weapons that he wore around his waist and shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s not the answer I’m looking for,” Midael said sternly. The tracker got down on his hands and knees and sniffed the damp concrete for some trace of the boy.
“There are too many conflicting scents in here,” he said in his defense. “Grease and alcohol and rot.”
Because the kitchen hadn’t been used in well over a year, transients had spent much of their time converting it into a home. Dusty sleeping bags, a few crack pipes, and several empty whiskey bottles were piled high in one corner of the room like a shrine to the god of vagrancy. A few gated centerfold pinups lay scattered about like dead leaves in an autumn lawn. And then there was what looked like a few loose bricks near the mausoleum-sized refrigerator at the back of the kitchen. The wall with the ill-fitting bricks was coincidentally the wall that adjoined the alleyway behind the restaurant.
“He might have gone through this hole in the wall,” the tracker suggested. “But I can’t tell.”
“You can’t tell,” Midael screamed, not wanting to consider the possibility that the boy had escaped. “You can’t tell and you’re supposed to be a tracker. You may as well be a janitor for all the good you’re doing me.” The tracker cowered like an insulted child.
Fuming, the stiletto angel paced the room like a caged animal. Aside from the door leading to the alley and the crumbling hole in the wall where the bricks had been carefully stacked, the only other possible exit was the door that led to the restaurant’s musty dining area. The padlock was old and rusty, and no key, no matter how well oiled, would turn the tumblers. Midael tore the door off its hinges, throwing it against one of the grease-stained ovens.
“Half of you search what’s left of this place,” he growled at last. “The rest of you come with me and check the alleys.”
Rush waited until the angels had dispersed before climbing out of the hole. He knew he had gotten lucky this time. They hadn’t found his hiding place. He knew he wouldn’t get that lucky again.
Chapter 28
Since she started dealing to angels, Louise had learned a lot about their methods and talents. She knew that Samael would catch her scent in a matter of seconds. And if he even suspected that she was following him, he would make her life a living misery. That’s why she’d taken precautions. The small glass vial filled with opaque liquid was in her glove box along with the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum that she always kept for such occasions. She took both. It hadn’t been nearly as difficult to get the firearm without a license as it had been to collect enough of Samael’s sweat to give her adequate camouflage.
He had been infatuated with her in the beginning and had touched her willingly. Now, she was a convenience. Thankfully, she’d had enough foresight during those first tentative nights to collect whatever the death angel left behind. Feathers, concentrated sweat from the bed linens, even a few flecks of dried blood. Surely, Samael’s nose wouldn’t prick at his own scent. It’s what Louise was planning and praying for most.
Even before she watched him fly out of the junkyard and toward the city, she had a sneaking suspicion about where he’d end up. Since Edgemore died, he had effectively taken over The Zodiac Club and made it one of the centers of his operation. If the angels were going to abuse the needle, at least he could keep an eye on them while they did so.
And she, in turn, could keep an eye on him.
Nobody at the club seemed to notice her as she walked in. They were accustomed to seeing her. A lot of them were customers from time to time. It was only as she got close enough to give off a scent that attentions turned toward her. They could smell Samael on her and gave her the respect that he would demand. It wasn’t difficult to see what they were thinking, and she made no attempt to dispel any of the potential rumors that she was the death angel’s mistress. Instead, she walked right past the bar and headed toward the back, oblivious to the stares and whispers.
She’d only made it halfway to Samael’s bed chamber when she heard his voice.
“You haven’t gotten the results I was hoping for, Lilith. I thought you could coax an answer out of him somehow. There were no drugs at that tomb. It seems that if I want this done right, however, I’ll just have to do it myself.”
At one time, it might have made Louise jealous to hear another woman’s voice. Now, it was somewhat of a comfort. It would simplify her problems greatly if Samael was no longer interested in anything but scoring drugs where she was concerned.
“No,” the woman pleaded. “Just give me one more chance with the bones. I’ll find out where Edgemore’s stash is.”
At the mention of bones, Louise Hartwell froze where she stood, her grip tight on the .357.
“Jackpot,” she said with a smile.
Chapter 29
“Any ideas on how to get out of here?” Liz said. “You’re the war seraphim. You should have some experience escaping from places like this.”
“I’m a warrior not Harry Houdini,” Pyriel replied.
“You’re also pretty freaking big. Couldn’t you just bust through the door or something?”
Pyriel looked at her with a pitying smile. “This is a club for angels, remember? Richard Edgemore built this place so he could make the deals he had to make without the risk of prying eyes. If he built this room to hold angels, I’m sure he bought a door strong enough to do its job.”
“Maybe somebody’s around that could let us out?” Liz said. “Maybe there’s someone else like you looking for info.”
She didn’t wait on Pyriel to say whether or not he thought it was likely. Instead, she started screaming ‘help’ at the top of her lungs.
******
Louise stopped cold in the hallway and listened to the sound of someone yelling. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. After a few moments, she realized it sounded like Gibson’s girlfriend. Immediately she realized how she could get the bones. It would only take one bullet and the master key that Samael had given her to the club.
*****
No one was more surprised that Liz was when the door opened and Louise Hartwell stood there holding a gun.
“Get out while you’ve got time,” she said. “I won’t make this offer twice.”
Liz didn’t need any persuasion and neither did Pyriel. They bolted for the front of the club, not bothering to look behind them.
Without warning, Louise fired a round into the ceiling, stepped into one of the adjacent rooms, and waited on Samael to discover that his prisoners had escaped. Then all she’d have to do is waltz in and take Edgemore’s bones.
It was only a matter of seconds before Samael ran out to see what had happened. He cursed at the sight of the open door and the empty room. A gorgeous woman was by his side, and Louise had to resist the urge to throw the door open and empty the .357’s clip into that beautiful face. But she kept herself in check and waited a full minute after they’d left the club before gathering up the bones.
There
would always be a next time for revenge.
For now, however, she had some bones to steal.
Chapter 30
On a normal day, Dade might have stopped to gawk at The Black Cat’s bevy of scantily clad dancers. But Liz was in serious trouble, and that was more important to him than catching a cheap glance of nude skin.
A few of the girls eyed him appreciatively as he moved through the club. To judge by the way they were sizing him up, they either thought he was good-looking or a generous tipper. Dade never made eye contact with any of them, hoping to elude any potential advances. Thankfully, the girls knew how to read the signs and kept their distance. Still, a few of them looked hopeful, like the mood might change if only they waited long enough.
Fortunately, he saw Leon at the other end of the club, chatting up a few of the dancers. Dressed in a tight torso-hugging silver mesh shirt and slick gray pants, Leon looked like he could have doubled as a crew member aboard the Starship Enterprise or a strand of Christmas tinsel. Only the black feather boa and black nail polish ruined the illusion.
Leon glanced up just in time to see the worried look on Dade’s face. “What‘s wrong?”
“Samael’s got Liz. He’s threatening to harm her if I don’t assassinate a twelve-year-old boy. I received an e-mail with several pictures of Liz being held in some dungeon. I don’t know where to look for her but I think Samael’s serious about torturing her.”
“Calm down and slow down,” Leon said, holding up his enormous hands. “Now, first, what is this about a twelve-year-old boy?”
Dade quickly explained about how the creature masquerading as his father turned up and how he’d given him the Polaroid with instructions to kill. He also handed Leon the flash drive with the digitized photos that he’d received in the e-mailed threat.
“Now when you say Samael, you’re talking about the death angel. Is that right?”
“That’s the one,” Dade confirmed. “The pictures I told you about are on that flash drive.”
“We need to have a look at these pictures,” Leon said. “Step into my office and we’ll see what we can come up with.”
With a few clicks of the mouse, Leon had a dark room program up and running on his PC. Then followed the images of Liz. Dade nearly turned away at the sight of her, shackled and held against her will.
The picture was mostly dark. Liz’s face and the gleam of silver chain were the only splashes of color that differentiated it from an overexposed snapshot. Leon, however, didn’t seem distressed by what they couldn’t see.
“It’s interesting, actually,” Leon said as he manipulated the digitized images. “The amateur photographer can actually do professional work if he has the right tools.”
“Let me guess,” Dade said. “You’ve been making fake I.D.’s again.”
“Something like that,” Leon answered, not bothering to explain what he meant.
“So can you tell me anything about where Liz is being held?” Dade asked impatiently. “Or are we going to have a lesson in the finer points of photography?”
Leon smiled slyly and made another click of the mouse. Instantly, the black became white and the white faded to black.
“This program has a feature on it that will allow you to convert your snapshots into negatives. Normally, it’s something I don’t use. But it seems like it’s finally coming in handy for something.”
“We still can’t tell where they’re keeping Liz,” Dade protested.
“Look a little closer,” Leon said. “There in the air around Liz’s head.”
Dade immediately saw what Leon was referring to. “Feathers,” he exclaimed. “There are feathers floating around in that room.”
“Look at the wall behind her,” Leon suggested.
“Stars,” Dade said. “Constellations.”
“I think we can go rescue Liz now,” Leon said. But Dade was already heading for the door.
Chapter 31
Abbadon, the watcher, studied the building where Rush was hiding and tried to make sense of it all. He was reluctant to use that name any more when referring to the boy. For that matter, he was reluctant to call him a boy after seeing the silhouette of an angel in the grimy restaurant window.
The trumpet sounded, one note, shrill and as clear, just as Abbadon was about to have another peek in the window. He sighed, thinking that he might have gotten the answers he needed with just a little more time. But that was also what most of the souls in the pit thought, that they might have changed it all with another moment or two of repentance. Abbadon had since learned that hindsight was as good as blindness in that respect.
The trumpet sounded again, and it was more than enough to get his attention. The Ninth Order of the Angelic Hosts was about to convene, and he was being called to join them. They wouldn’t be pleased with the things he had to report, but he wasn’t going to sugar coat it for them. Nobody had ever given him rose-colored glasses to watch over the souls of the damned with, and he wasn’t about to do it for the angelic council either. In fact, he was going to go in with a cigarette dangling from his lips and tell it to them straight.
At the third trumpet blast, Abbadon took to the air, thinking only of the disgust on each member of the council’s face when he told them what he had discovered. As he waited on the oldest angels of the order to file in and be seated, one or two of the more dignified seraphim stared at him balefully, their hawk-like visages remaining stern amidst the rumblings of war. Not really caring what the elders thought anymore, Abbadon didn’t bother to stub out the smoke. He’d done more work than all of them and felt like he deserved something for his trouble. Like the enjoyment of a cigarette.
So far, the most anyone had been able to conclude was that God’s wounded faithful had found sanctuary within the weather-worn walls of St. Michael’s and solace from the regenerative touch of the young boy. Abbadon couldn’t wait to tell them differently.
The council, however, seemed to know what kind of news awaited them. They looked on with tired eyes that had seen all of eternity’s problems. They weren’t going to be as surprised as Abbadon had expected. He was a little disappointed.
“I think I know where Rusty Nails originated,” Abbadon said before the council had a chance to speak, rousing the old angels more than he would have thought possible.
One of the oldest angels in the room stood up and stretched his gray-feathered wings.
“Abbadon, you have been sent to watch the boy, Rush, not to probe into deeper mysteries.”
“These mysteries are interlinked, Mideon. And the boy you speak of is not a boy. He is like us. An angel.”
The silence in the massive hall was oppressive. Abbadon knew that the council respected his opinion, but he also knew that they were aware of his problem with the perforated spoon. Each of them studied him carefully. Abbadon knew what they were thinking.
“I trust you haven’t been toying with The Green Fairy,” Mideon said, giving Abbadon a sidelong glance.
“I’m completely sober,” Abbadon maintained. “Everything I saw, I saw because it was real, not some narcotic hallucination.”
“Give us the identity of this traitor then,” Mideon demanded. “He must be found and cast out at once.”
“I was unable to determine who the angel was. Samael’s assassins were after him, and I was afraid that they would catch me in the process. However, I did see the spread of seraphim wings. I’m sure of it.”
“This is serious,” Mideon said.
“We need to know who’s behind this,” one of the lesser members of the council grumbled to himself. “This information is worthless without that.”
“I agree,” Mideon said. “Abbadon will simply have to pick up the scent again.”
“Not before he does something else,” one of the angels spoke up. Immediately all ears pricked at the sound of the musical voice.
“Victoria,” Mideon said.
“This is as much my business as it is anyone’s. I’ve got a lot at stake here too.
”
“I don’t understand,” Abbadon said.
“My son is involved in this,” she replied. “Like any good mother, I watch over my son, and I can smell Samael’s influence all over his office.”
“None of this has anything to do with the boy,” Mideon protested.
“It has everything to do with the boy,” Victoria said. “My daughter told me.”
The council chamber was a roar of voices.
“Samael’s desperate to find Richard Edgemore’s hiding place. He wants to be in control of those that are loyal to him. He can’t do that if they’ve lost all sense of inhibition. This boy is the key to everything. Dade has already been threatened if he doesn’t kill the child.”
“Threatened with what?” Mideon asked.
“With the souls of my husband and daughter.”
“And just how do you know all of this?” Abbadon asked, more than a little curious.
“Like my son and my daughter, I can hear the dead,” she replied.
“What’s so terrible about your son assassinating the boy if he’s not at all what he appears, if he’s threatening the very balance of heaven by his actions?” Mideon asked. “Might that not be the best thing for all concerned?”
“Samael wants Rush dead for a reason. He’s unsure of what the boy is or what he’s capable of. He’s also afraid of competition. Samael didn’t stage this revolt thinking that he’d have to fight those loyal to God and those loyal to the needle. This has turned out much worse than he ever imagined, and he’s simply trying to eliminate one of his obstacles.”
Rusty Nails (The Dade Gibson Case Files) Page 10