by Nina Post
A Division of Whampa, LLC
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© 2017 Nina Post
www.ninapost.com
Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky
http://eugeneteplitsky.deviantart.com/
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ISBN 978-1-62007-016-1 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-017-8 (paperback)
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For Jeremy
he Jackal was a high-maintenance client, prone to micro-management and fits of hysteria. He was also a resident of Amenity Tower, Pothole City’s Finest Luxury Condominium Building. Two weeks earlier, the Jackal’s estranged lover stole his favorite painting and sold it for a quarter at the building’s annual tag sale.
The Jackal had little patience for local law enforcement, so he decided to bring in a professional to track down the beloved heirloom. His requirements were specific: he needed someone who could tolerate the eccentricities of working for an aardwolf―more commonly known as a gray jackal―and who could find their way around a high-rise populated with creatures that made him look normal by comparison.
A color copy of the insurance photo was folded away in Kelly Driscoll’s jacket pocket. In the painting, a melancholy-faced cowboy wearing a Stetson hat and red sunglasses rode a roller coaster over an ocean, an opulent house in the distance. In one calloused, outstretched hand, the cowboy held a tiny walrus; in the other, a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles.
The cowboy painting job was an unwelcome reminder of the sorry state of her career. A year ago, Kelly had found the werewolf fugitive who became known as the Mennonite Butler, hiding in a Horse and Buggy Old Order Mennonite community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, doing chores for a local family: carpentry, milking, buggy-driving.
When she confronted the Butler, he had a fruit flummery in the stove and politely requested that she wait until the oven timer went off. She agreed, and the oddly genteel and dainty sponge dessert was worth the wait. After the fugitive carefully put away the rest of the flummery, she collared him.
But she never got credit for the job. A vampire huntress in a luxury RV swooped into town and stole Kelly’s thunder, garnishing accolades, media attention, and work. Lots of work.
“That was not fair play,” Kelly said through her teeth as she stood on the roof.
She put the memory in a box, and imagined throwing the box off the roof until it smashed on the streets below. If there was one thing she was still skilled at, it was compartmentalizing. She needed all of her concentration to descend the granite flank of the sixty-floor Amenity Tower, wash some high-rise windows, and search for a painting of a melancholy cowboy.
What she wanted was a second chance, another fugitive to find.
The harness fit snugly around her chest and thighs as she strapped in, and she imagined what the great football coach Jay Vanner would say if he were on a seat next to her her, tan and focused: ‘Kelly, we both know you’ll be taking some hits while you chase down the big score. Just remember: your long-term performance is what really counts.’
She nodded as though in response, checked that her screw gates were tight and made sure that the ropes were attached to the eye bolt, then lowered herself in her hand-made boatswain seat, the wood cold against her backside. She pressed the handle of her chest harness to descend.
Kelly squeezed out each end of her mop into one of the buckets and ran it over the window in a square, leaving an overlap of dry glass at the edge.
February in Pothole City was aggressive, like the city itself held a grudge against its citizens. A frigid wind snapped around the skyscrapers, lashing Kelly like a bully-wielded gym towel, carrying the scent of agar, chocolate, and dust. A black watch cap covered her ash-blonde hair and part of her ears; tinted polycarb goggles kept her eyes from watering.
Grasping the squeegee with goatskin gloved hand, she started the blade at a forty-five-degree angle and turned the handle before it reached the right edge, skin crawling at the first squeak. She pulled the squeegee down at an angle to the left.
A hint of a smile creased her right cheek. A clean window gave her more satisfaction than any job she’d worked lately. On the boatswain chair, she felt free from the tentacles of her past, though they could reach all the way, if she stayed long enough. For the moment, she wasn’t even afraid of the future.
To pass observational muster as a pro squeaker, she could take five minutes at each window. Even if louvered blinds were lowered and tightened, she could find an angle that gave her some visual access. She scanned the interior of an apartment with a weathered, yellow-taped spotting scope.
So far, no painting. She hoped that it was hanging on someone’s living room wall, not accumulating dust under a bed. She needed this money, and preferred to break in through a window and not deal with going in the building otherwise.
Using the suction cup to stabilize herself, she moved to the next unit and saw a man in headphones hugging a roll of paper towels near the window. She stopped moving, stopped thinking about work, stopped thinking about her gray-toned life, and stared transfixed as he ran a hand through honey-colored hair, considering multiple backdrops he’d set up in his living room.
Ultimately―and she was completely absorbed in his decision, placing mental bets on which backdrop best suited that roll of paper towels―he placed the roll in front of a mountain range, compressing his tall and lean body into a crouch. A frisson of triumph went through her; that was her choice, too.
A white umbrella on a long stand glowed softly in the corner as he picked up a large camera and fiddled with the settings.
Time to make herself known.
She bounced lightly off the side of the building with the tips of her boots, and slapped her squeegee on his window. He jumped at the noise, holding the camera with a death grip. She slid the squeegee to the side, flashing a mischievous smile, and he went right up to the window. His widened eyes were the intense blue of a fresh Lactarius indigo mushroom, her favorite. She approved.
Kelly held up the squeegee in greeting.
After a moment, the man nodded, then returned to his work.
“What was it, the squeegee?” she muttered.
No painting, regardless. She finished his window and quickly installed a small plot watcher camera, which took a shot every eight seconds. Just in case.
urray used binoculars to watch Kelly assemble her equipment. It seemed easy enough at the time. But when he tried to do it himself, it was like watching traders in the mercantile exchange use those incomprehensible hand signals, then trying to trade on your own.
“Okay. Rope… feet… tighten these things… tools in bucket.” Already, he wanted to throw up. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Be quiet. Be quiet. Calm down. No one is here to help you.”
After some maneuvering, he stood up in the chair, put his wingtip shoes through, then lowered himself, slowly, onto the seat.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.
He looked down, in itself a terrible idea.
“Orangey handle,” he whispered, hating his job, resenting his boss, and wanting to be safe in his apartment
. Maybe Stringfellow had found his way home. “Okay, I think I―Ow!”
His hair was caught in the handle.
“Owww, dammit.” He reached into his pocket for his multitool. After some fumbling, he managed to pry out the corkscrew, then the nail file and the screwdriver. Finally, he found the knife and cut his hair above his temple, releasing his head from the handle.
“Right,” he said under his breath. “This rope to descend. It’s just that easy! Or, I’ll end up a puddle of goo on the sidewalk that people will step around with disgust.”
His body felt leaden; he couldn’t get enough oxygen; and despite the cold, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Taking his hand off the rope, even for a second, almost made him pass out. He looked down without moving his head. “If this doesn’t get me promoted―”
He stopped next to Kelly Driscoll, the one he was supposed to talk to. He had waited for her to come down, but she never did, so he went up. It was the last thing he wated to do, but he had other work to do, and his boss was insistent he get this done ASAP.
“Who the hell are you?” Kelly yelled over the howling wind. He presumed she was glaring at him, but couldn’t tell through the tinted goggles.
“My name is Murray.”
“Nice suit. Are you going to throw up?”
“Nope.” He plastered a grin on his face, which he knew probably looked pained. “I’m great! This―yeah. This is just great.”
She held still. “I’m IWCA-trained. Are you?”
Murray sensed her skepticism and tried to reassure her. “Yes, I run my own cattery, totally certified, very professional.” IWCA sounded like it involved cats. International World of Catteries of… America. Wasn’t that right? Oh, no. No, it couldn’t be.
“Right.” She smirked. He was as good as fired.
“Well, just be careful. I’d hate for all those cats to be left alone without their administrator.”
“Oh, always. I am Mr. Careful.” Murray almost bowed but froze just in time, his insides liquefying. It took a good minute of breathing exercises before he could talk again. “Listen, I’m here on the side of this building to talk to you on behalf of my employer, the Destroying Angel of the Apocalypse.”
“Go on,” she said.
“He’s heard of your accomplishments―”
She laughed.
“And he would like to hire you to find a fugitive in this building. You would have two days to locate him and report back.”
She bounced casually, especially considering she wasn’t attached to anything, not really. He envied her ease with the terrifying wooden chair, and knew he would not sleep that night.
“How much?”
“$10,000, plus standard reimbursements.”
She tacked an extra 70% onto the offer. “$17,000,” she countered.
He desperately wanted this over with, but of course she had to be a savvy negotiator. He hated her for that. How many times would she counter?
“I can do $15,000, but that’s the top of my budget,” he said, knowing that his fear of heights compromised his negotiating skills.
“You got a deal.”
“Excellent.” He made the mistake of letting go and shaking her hand. Terrifying. “Not to be rude, but I’m going to get to solid ground now. Details later, OK?”
As he passed a fifth floor unit, he threw up, completely missing the bucket. A lizard-like creature on the sidewalk shouted and shook its fist. Murray mouthed “Sorry” and waved, but the lizard made a contemptuous and dismissive gesture in response.
he Jackal, a diminutive four feet tall with thick, lustrous Andy Gibb-style hair, was delighted to hear that Kelly found his painting. He shrieked, tiny paw over his snout, then ran up to the apartment to repurchase the painting from its temporary owner.
She waited in the building’s automat on the second floor. She dug in her pocket for some change, opened one of the little doors for a chocolate pudding, then poured a cup of coffee from the bird-head spigot on the dispenser.
The Jackal returned to the automat carrying the painting by the hanging wire, his little arms extended to keep it from hitting the floor. He paid her in full, and told her to take the painting.
“It’s yours! Enjoy. Consider it a bonus.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Kelly asked, still eating the pudding. “Strap it to my back like an apocalypse prophet?”
The Jackal put his hands on his hips. “You know how my partner sold the painting just to make me mad? If I give this painting to you, I can pretend I never found it, and then I can hold it over him for years.”
Accepting the painting and her money, she went outside to the patio, leaned the painting against a tree planter, and packed up the gear she didn’t leave on the roof. She crouched on one knee and put her lanyard, harness, goggles, and climbing helmet in her tackle bag, wondering when she’d actually have the time to buy some lumber and start putting her house back together. Right now it was a charred clearing with some random pieces of wood. Maybe after a few more random gigs she scraped up. Or a hundred.
Until then, she’d keep staying in hostels or empty houses, eating soup cups, and wandering the country by herself, doing the monster bounty hunter’s version of ambulance chasing. She didn’t want to admit it was lonely and empty, but it was. And she needed money.
When someone walked up to her and stopped a foot away, she raised her head and saw the awkward guy in the suit who had interrupted her window washing with a fairly generous offer.
“Nice painting,” Murray said.
She grunted in response, then heard a sound and turned, noticed someone standing behind her: a small-framed, puffy-haired, placid-faced person wearing jeans with a large mirrored metal brand sign, a puffy black nylon jacket zipped up to the top, shiny black patent sneakers with a mirrored metal letter on the sides, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.
He moved closer and she looked askance at this stranger invading her personal space.
“Who’s this, a lost extra from Breaking Away?”
“This is Tubiel. He doesn’t speak,” Murray said. “Most don’t.”
“Most what―most fashion victims?”
He laughed. “No. Tubiel is an angel in charge of returning small birds to their owners.”
She looked at Tubiel, and back to Murray. “And I’m the angel in charge of good moods.”
Tubiel put his feet up on the planter and showed Kelly his socks.
She ignored him and turned back to Murray. “You look a little washed out. Scared of heights?”
Murray scratched the back of his neck. “I’m just worried. Someone broke into my place and took my ferret, Stringfellow Hawk.”
“Someone stole your ferret? Why, can he lead them to the Devil’s Eye diamond?” She zipped up her bag.
“I can’t believe they managed to take him,” Murray continued, “because he’s scrappy: he’ll fight if he’s taunted or condescended to or if he hears Grace Zabriskie’s voice. I watched Inland Empire when it came out on DVD and he tore up the sofa.”
She stood and stretched, twisting to the side to crack her back. “Tell me more about this job. The one that pays.”
He gestured to the edifice she had just scaled. “This building, Amenity Tower, is a luxury condominium that’s home to cast-out angels and interdimensional monsters.”
She received the information with equanimity.
“The angels are bound to the building,” he continued. “But eventually, if they figure out how, they’ll escape from Amenity Tower and wreak destruction and chaos.”
“That kind of sounds like your boss’s job,” she said. “Isn’t that what the Destroying Angel of the Apocalypse wants―the apocalypse? That’s a very specific title.”
Murray scoffed. “What? No, he doesn’t want that.” He held up a finger. “More precisely, he doesn’t want these angels to do it now. Regardless, your directive is to find this fugitive, an incredibly volatile and dangerous angel, and bring him in. Are you bonded?�
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“Sure.” Yeah right.
“Great! You have exactly two days to find the target.”
She sighed. “Two days to find someone who could be anyone in a 500-unit building with high security?”
Tubiel gave her a small rock.
“I see your point, but do what you can. My employer will supply you with a case of glass vials,” Murray said.
“I don’t do urine samples.”
“No, you would use the vials to collect and repatriate any suspicious monsters or fallen angels while you look for the fugitive.”
“Suspicious.” She cocked her head. “Like an angel who doesn’t eat a breakfast that someone has prepared for him? Or who doesn’t believe in regrets, or who doesn’t like cheese, or who uses an alarm clock that requires you to solve an equation to turn it off? That kind of suspicious behavior?”
Murray shrugged. “Whatever you think looks suspicious. You don’t have to do anything special; the vials do the work for you. I should also mention that anyone who works in medical office management, the dental profession, or the post office are invariably the lowest of demons. Just vial them on sight. No additional evidence needed.”
“What, exactly, inspired them to find work in Pothole City?”
Murray cleared his throat. “We think they sensed the increasing activity at Amenity Tower. First the angels were bound to this building, then the cosmic detritus―”
“The what?”
“The interdimensional creatures. I don’t know where any of them came from. Galaxy cracks? Your guess is as good as mine right now.”
“Fine.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and tilted her head toward Murray’s friend. “Seriously, who is he?”
“He’s a single-purpose angel.” Murray opened his mouth to speak again but hesitated.
“Time is money.” She made a winding motion with her hand.
Murray nodded then launched into it. “There’s an angel for everything. There’s at least one for every day and every hour of the day and night, at least one for every species, and at least one for every occupation. There’s the angel of aquatic animals, the angel in charge of lumberjack sports and timber entertainment, the angel in charge of HVAC systems, the angel who protects commerce brokers―”