Concrete Savior

by Yvonne Navarro

  “What?” he ground out.

  “I have to get to work,” Rita told him.

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I know, but it’s my turn to cover the reception desk. First Saturday of every month, remember?”

  “If I’d remembered, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

  “Oh.” She didn’t say anything for a long moment. She was just out of eyesight range, hovering like an annoying moth. “Do you need anything before I go? Some water, or a soda? I only have to work until two, but I could make you a sandwich so you don’t have to wait until I get home to eat lunch.”

  Jack opened his mouth to tell her to shut the fuck up, then a thought blossomed in his head. It was so good it was worth the pain of struggling to sit up so he could look at her. “What you could do,” he rasped, “is get me some more pain medicine.”

  Rita frowned. The expression made her eyes tilt toward each other in her round face at the same time her mouth drew into a straight, thin line. God, how had he ever found her attractive? Then again, he wasn’t much of a prize himself anymore. Now there was something that had been pushing unpleasantly at his brain ever since he woke up in the hospital, eating at him along with the never-ending misery of his burns.

  “The doctor said no refills,” Rita said.

  “Don’t you think I fucking know that?” he snapped.

  “Jack, I know you’re in pain but—”

  “Get me something from where you work,” he interrupted. “It’s a dentist’s office, for Christ’s sake. There has to be something you can pick up.”

  Rita stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He swung his legs over the side of bed, fighting the sheets as his feet found the floor and his toes sank into the not-very-clean carpeting. Rita had been sleeping on the couch to make sure she didn’t bump him in the middle of the night, and the bed looked like a disaster zone. The cheap linens were crumpled and stained with burn medicine, rank with the smell of someone confined to bed.

  “Jack, you know I can’t do something like that. I just sit at the front desk and answer the phones. I don’t have access to any of the medications, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to get for you.”

  “Vicodin,” he said. “Demerol. Morphine would be even better.”

  “I can’t. That’s all locked up and I don’t have the keys—”

  “Then get them, for fuck’s sake!” he yelled. “Can’t you see I’m in pain here?”

  He saw Rita wince when he raised his voice, and Jack thought that was a good thing, a fair thing. Let her hurt, just like him. Having to holler had not started a dull headache in his forehead; rather, it had raised his blood pressure to the point where the areas cooked on his body were now throbbing along with his pulse, each beat of his heart sending a big, nasty jolt everywhere on his body that counted.

  “No.”

  “Wait—what?” He glared at her, feeling both his pulse and temper climb even higher.

  Standing there in that stupid new uniform top, something that had fucking kittens on it, she drew herself up. “I said no. Even if I could do what you want—and I can’t—I wouldn’t, Jack. Not only would it get me fired, it’s wrong. It’s stealing drugs.”

  Son of a bitch, he thought. For a second or two, he was actually stunned that she would talk this way to him, that she would refuse him. Did this stupid woman actually think he was so sick that he couldn’t still kick her ass all over this house?

  He was off the bed and across the room so quickly that she didn’t even have time to inhale before he hit her.

  He put the full weight of his body behind the punch and he aimed for her face, but his injuries affected his balance and his fist caught her on the shoulder instead. She flew backward and screamed, and he went after her, intent on teaching her the biggest and best lesson of her life about doing what the hell he told her. She tried to get away and that pissed him off even more. He hit her again, she wailed, and it all started over; every blow pulled and split his crisped skull and hurt more than the one before, and that made him even more furious. It all built—her big unexpected refusal, his agony, her shrieks, his fury. He would shut her up, damn it all, and then she would know who was boss—

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  Something hard and heavy crashed into the broad part of his back and scraped the burns across the back of his now-bald skull. He had a fist bunched around the collar of Rita’s stupid cat top so he could hold her up, but he didn’t let go of his wife when he spun. His other hand came up automatically and caught one leg of the metal kitchen chair before Kendall could slam it down again.

  “Get away from my mother!” the boy screamed. “Let her go or I’ll kill you, I swear I will!”

  Jack wrenched the chair out of the kid’s hands with hardly any effort at all. He was enveloped in pain but past acknowledging it, past thinking about consequences, past all reason. All he was now, all he had left was endorphins, agony, and rage.

  He slammed Rita face-first against the wall so hard that her head snapped backward, then dropped forward like a ball hanging from a string. Ken howled and leaped forward, and Jack tossed his wife aside and went to work in earnest on the stepson he so despised.

  “GOOD MORNING, MA’AM,” THE young woman said pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

  Brynna made herself smile, hoping as she did so that it looked natural—it was such an integral part of human existence but sometimes that simple expression still felt foreign to her. If a smile felt odd on her face when it came naturally as a result of something good, did a false one ever really look genuine? “I’m not sure,” Brynna answered. “I don’t really know what I’m looking for.” As the words left her mouth, the irony of the utter truthfulness in that statement wasn’t lost on her. Really, she shouldn’t be worrying about that smile thing. She had been all about deception since her fall from Grace; there was no reason she couldn’t turn the tables and use those skills to her advantage now, in this entirely new game.

  The young woman looked her up and down but didn’t step any closer. The appraisal was evaluating but not catty or insulting. “You’re very tall,” she said. “I imagine it can be very difficult to find a properly tailored suit. Our clientele is generally male, but we are very pleased to offer our services to women looking for upscale business attire.”

  Brynna nodded and took her time scanning the inside of the spacious, well-appointed store into which she had followed the girl after she’d left the nephilim at the coffee shop on Michigan Avenue. The instant she’d stepped into this high-end suit business, a single name had flashed into her head:

  Lahash.

  This was exactly the sort of place where the demon would come to feed his never-ending desire to play dress-up in the human world. Tasteful, low key, horrendously expensive—in fact, Brynna was certain that right over there was a bolt of tan-colored fabric that exactly matched the suit Lahash had been wearing the last time she’d seen him at Wrigley Field, right after the unfortunate Michael Klesowitch had met his end. And she had no doubt that Lahash was still around. Although she’d screwed up his current plans to eliminate nephilim around the city, he’d come up with something else eventually—he always did. After all, he was like her: if he had to, he could wait forever.

  “I was thinking more of getting a gift for someone,” Brynna said. “I came in here because a friend of mine recommended it. Perhaps you know him. He’s tall, like me, handsome with very dark hair and eyes. His name is Lahash.”

  Although the young lady never made a sound or a move that anyone normal would have noticed, Brynna felt her change as surely as if she’d had a hand on the girl’s arm. Her heartbeat jumped, her temperature rose, she even inhaled more deeply. It wasn’t fear exactly . . . no, not that strong. More like uneasiness, as if she knew something, a dark and special secret, and needed to make sure that knowledge stayed hidden. That meant she probably wasn’t working directly with Lahash . . . but she had undoubtedly ha
d dealings with him. Had it been only to sell him a suit or three, or had there been something more meaningful between them?

  Brynna just loved discovering tidbits like that.

  “No,” the woman said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall him.”

  She was definitely lying, but that was okay. Lying was only a problem to those who couldn’t tell they were being lied to. Brynna nodded and stepped closer, pretending to examine some of the finer material closer to the front desk. She could now see the girl had a gold-toned name tag that read Ms. Whitfield pinned to one side of her suit jacket. The wall in front of Brynna had shelving compartments on it that went two-thirds of the way to the ceiling; each compartment held six to eight bolts of extremely expensive fabric in varying thicknesses. Appearing at eye level in evenly spaced intervals was the tasteful reminder to customers to Please ask for Associate Assistance.

  Brynna reached forward and tugged one of the bolts halfway out of its space.

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  A silky-feeling burgundy fabric cascaded over her hand and Ms. Whitfield hurried forward and slipped past Brynna, reaching for it before Brynna could pull it completely free. “Oh—wait, please. Let me get it out for you.” Brynna stayed where she was, acting as if she hadn’t heard. When the young woman’s hand stretched past hers, Brynna stepped sideways and wrapped one hand around the saleswoman’s wrist.

  She experienced everything in rapid-fire sequence, like automatic camera scenes snapping across her vision:

  She saw the dimly lit apartment saturated with emptiness and fear, the empty bed, the unused comb on the bathroom sink.

  She heard the asexual voice on the phone, took in the demands, did not believe them.

  She opened the box and saw the finger, breathed in the smell that got worse every time the box was taken out of the freezer and opened. She contemplated the coldness of the skin and the ragged end of the flesh below the gleam of a wedding ring that matched the one hidden in her dresser drawer.

  She listened to the voice again and met its demands, tried to give it satisfaction. She did not know why the voice wanted the information but she followed its instructions and met with Casey Anlon, passed him that same dreadful information.

  And she did it again.

  And again.

  And she was still trying, even today, right up to this morning, telling him to—

  The woman wrenched her arm free and backed away from Brynna. The expensive bolt of fabric tumbled to the floor but she didn’t notice. Her pretty face had gone the color of pale ash.

  Brynna said the first thing that came to her mind. “I can find him.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “I can find your husband.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The girl was terrified. Even though the store was air-conditioned to the point of being cold, sweat had broken out across her forehead. Although the shop was empty of anyone else and everything nonliving was in full view, her gaze darted frantically from side to side as though someone might overhear them.

  “Let me help you,” Brynna said. “You can’t do this by yourself. It’s hard to explain—”

  “Get out!” the girl suddenly shrieked. “Get out right now!”

  “But I—”

  “I’ll call the police,” the girl said. Her words were barely understandable because her teeth were clamped together so tightly that her jaw wouldn’t move. She whirled and strode behind the polished mahogany counter; in another moment she’d lifted a telephone handset to her ear. “You have three seconds to turn around and walk out of here before I dial 911.”

  “All right,” Brynna said calmly. “But if you change your mind . . .” She left the sentence unfinished as she slipped one hand into her purse—funny how quickly she’d become so dependent on such a human thing—and pulled out one of the simple business cards that Eran had made for her. When the stone-faced girl didn’t take it, Brynna placed it on the counter, turned, and walked out.

  She knew the Whitfield woman was watching her through the window, so she intentionally turned back to meet her gaze through the store’s window before striding out of sight along the sidewalk. She wasn’t sure the girl would call her, but that had been the best she could come up with in such a short time. The last thing Eran needed was for someone to call the cops on Brynna, ostensibly on some kind of harassment charge. Her business card listed only Brynna Malak—Language Specialist and her telephone number, and that probably wasn’t intriguing enough to get the girl’s attention. Brynna hadn’t had time to tell her anything else.

  But she had a whole lot to tell Eran.

  CASEY ANLON HAD GONE back to his apartment building after leaving Starbucks, so when Brynna called, Eran told her to take a cab and met back up with him there. “So fill me in,” he said when she opened the door and climbed into the car. “Find out anything interesting?”

  “A lot,” Brynna said, “although as far as her identity, I can only tell you that her last name is Whitfield and she’s married.”

  “Married?” Eran considered this. “So she and Casey are having an affair.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But she kissed him,” Eran pointed on. “On the mouth. Relatives don’t do that.”

  “Doesn’t matter. All she’s thinking about is her husband—”

  “But—”

  “—who’s been kidnapped.”

  “What!”

  “She’s being blackmailed,” Brynna told him. “I touched her, but only for a moment—like Casey, she could feel that something wasn’t right and she pulled away.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “To put it mildly. Anyway, some . . . one has her husband and is making her give them information.”

  Eran’s eyes narrowed. “I heard that hesitation, Brynna. Someone? Or something?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she finally admitted. “I can’t tell from the images in my head. All she has is a voice on the telephone, and she doesn’t even know if it’s male or female. Because she can’t tell, I can’t, either.”

  “But you know whoever’s behind the voice has her husband?”

  Brynna nodded. “Oh, yeah. That part isn’t pretty, Eran. The woman has her husband’s finger in her freezer. Wearing his wedding ring.”

  “God,” Eran muttered. “That

  “Doesn’t matter what I think,” Brynna answered. “She does. And that’s why she keeps doing what the voice demands.”

  “Which is what?”

  Brynna frowned. “Again, I’m not really sure. Like Casey, I don’t believe this girl is really evil. I think she’s being manipulated. It is kind of interesting that she works in an upscale men’s tailoring shop, which is just the kind of place Lahash frequents.”

  Eran’s interest jumped up yet another notch. Lahash—he’d never come face-to-face with the demon who had masterminded the serial killings in Chicago earlier in the summer, although Brynna knew him well and had warned Eran that Lahash was indescribably dangerous and Eran should never cross paths with him. But being the human Eran was, being the cop he was . . .

  Oh yeah. One of these days.

  Aloud he asked, “You think Lahash is behind this?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I just couldn’t tell. There’s so much fear in her that most of her thoughts are too muddled to decipher—another reason I can’t figure out what she can do or what she’s telling this person on the phone. I mean, on the outside, she looks just like anyone else, a regular person.”

  “I’m learning that happens a lot.”

  Brynna smiled a little. “True, but I can usually figure it out. This time, though—she has love and guilt all twisted up inside her head and it’s masking everything.” Brynna thought for a moment. “Kind of like Casey Anlon. He’s got a lot of guilt inside him, too, you know?”

  “No, I don’t,” Eran said. “I just see him going happily on his way and causing all kinds of shit, like someone who thinks they’re a
great driver but never notices the trail of accidents they left behind on the roadway.”

  “No, he’s not that ignorant. I could tell he’s really torn up over what Glenn Klinger did.”

  “Maybe,” Eran said, “they’re somehow working on each other.”

  Brynna folded her arms. “Casey Anlon is a nephilim but Whitfield isn’t. That’s not just coincidence. I can’t help thinking she’s somehow being used to get to him. Out of that duo, he’s the one who matters. Frankly, most of the humans in this world don’t mean much to the demons of Hell. They’re just points on an underworld scorecard, who can get the most during the fastest period of time.” At his sour look, she added, “Sorry—I’m just being honest.” She drummed her fingers against the door for a moment. “You know, I never stopped to wonder how Lahash was able to figure out exactly where Mireva was going to be that day at the Museum of Science and Industry. We might have found his connection—this woman might be a true seer, someone who can see the future.”