“I do want to. I want to very much.”
Madison swallowed, unsettled by how much she wanted him beside her tonight. And how much she wished they might do more than sleep.
* * *
Beverly Simon sat in the parlor, considering asking the source of her visions - whatever that source might be - for more information. It was something she resorted to rarely. Asking for more terrifying images was like asking your abuser for another beating, and sometimes, it didn’t even bring answers. Her hands trembled as she brought a cup of chamomile tea to her lips. It was supposed to be soothing, but tonight, she wished for Xanax. Or whisky.
The afternoon’s visions of Madison O’Riley’s friend had only been the beginning. From there, they’d gotten worse, coming at her with relentless force - in such graphic detail - that she’d had to cancel her evening appointments. It was only eight p.m. and Beverly was exhausted.
She sipped the tea. “Just stop,” she whispered. But it wouldn’t stop. She’d seen things tonight she hoped never to see again: murder, bloody bodies engaged in violent orgies, blades slicing open throats, and bloated corpses hanging from support beams. But the visions always returned to Madison O’Riley’s young friend and, perhaps strangest of all, to Nick Grayson.
How are either of them involved in this? There was one way to find out. She closed her eyes. “What are you trying to tell me? Just say it. Just tell me.”
Her source wasted no time.
Behind her eyes, she saw a great burst of fire. Beverly’s hands dug into the arms of the chair as a building collapsed on itself. Inside were two women, and Beverly gasped as a second, and fiercer, explosion struck, tearing the women’s bodies into pieces and leaving their shredded remains to be consumed by flames.
This is new. “What are you telling me?” she asked.
The vision moved to Madison’s friend and again, Beverly saw the spread of flame-tipped black wings. Her heart swelled at the sheer beauty - he was like no one she’d ever seen before and she could have spent hours just staring at him. But then, by rote, Nick Grayson’s face superimposed itself, and she was staring at the chief.
His face began to change.
The touch of gray at his temples turned dark and the fine crow’s feet around his eyes disappeared. His skin became smoother, tighter. Time moved backwards, revealing Nick Grayson as a strapping young man, then a gangly teenager, then a pre-pubescent. Then finally, Beverly was looking at a very young Nick Grayson, perhaps only seven or eight years old.
He’d been an adorable child with smooth chubby cheeks, pudgy hands, and a round little belly. His current good looks could already be seen in the structure of his jaw and brow, and the strength of his nose but now, he was bruised and his skin had been burned. Gauze was wrapped around one of his arms and tubes trailed from his nose. His breathing came in deep, uneven rasps. He turned his head, coughing deep and hard before finding his breath again.
Beverly realized she was in the hospital room, and he did not seem aware of her.
Confined to bed, the little boy looked around the empty room, searching. Mommy? Daddy? He didn’t speak - it seemed that perhaps he couldn’t - but Beverly heard his thoughts clearly. Where are you, Mommy? Where is Daddy? There were no flowers or cards, not even a stuffed toy or an empty chair to indicate he’d had visitors. She could feel his terror, his confusion, his sense of abandonment.
Beverly’s eyes brimmed with tears as the child tried to sit up, couldn’t, and began weeping in silence. Where is everybody? Why am I here? Someone please, help me!
His breath hitched and, as if she’d materialized before him, he looked right at Beverly. Who are you? he asked in his thoughts.
Beverly wanted to reply, to say something to comfort the child, but found she couldn’t. This was not her body to command - she was a spectator, nothing more. Looking out of eyes that weren’t hers, she approached the child.
Young Nick did not seem afraid.
Beverly felt herself reaching out; saw a foreign hand moving toward the child.
The body she occupied laid a large male hand on his chest over a deep, fresh surgical incision. She knew the surgery hadn’t worked - and that the man she inhabited was here to heal him. Nick closed his eyes, exhaling, his body relaxing as a soft glow formed around the masculine hand. The same glow that appeared around Abby Strane’s head …
There was a tingly warmth in the fingers and then ... the little boy - and the entire hospital room - was gone. Beverly was back in her own body, looking at her own parlor, crying her own tears. “What happened to you, Nick?”
* * *
Shawn was in mid-stream, enjoying a good long pee, and didn’t see Tiffany Rhodes enter the men’s room of Roxie’s Diner.
“Shit!” cried Bobby. “Get down!” He tackled his friend, throwing himself on top of him before Shawn was finished doing his business.
The first explosion hit, sounding like little more than a muffled crack of thunder.
“Man!” Shawn rolled out from beneath Bobby, tucking his pecker back in. “Why didn’t you tell me she was going in?” He got to his knees and thrust the binoculars to his eyes, Bobby’s head smacking his own as he was yanked over.
Bound like Siamese twins attached at the binocular strap, they peered above the bushes, neither breathing, as Shawn brought the diner into focus.
Dust rose as one end of the building crumbled, caving in on itself. There was something terribly sexy about the sound of destruction and Shawn was instantly aroused. “Holy shit! This is awesome.”
“Let me see!”
But Shawn smacked Bobby’s hand away. “You had your chance, man. It’s my turn.”
But nothing was happening; there were no flames, no one running around with their hair on fire, screaming. No tits or ass flying through the trees. Just silence and a half-collapsed diner.
“Well, that was anticlimactic.” Bobby unwrapped a Pucker-Button candy and popped it in his mouth.
“Shh,” said Shawn. “Just wait till it hits the gas line.”
Seconds later, the diner detonated in a great explosion of shattering glass, flying debris, and black smoke. Fire bloomed, brightening the night sky.
“Holy fuck,” said Bobby.
Shawn licked his lips, binoculars pressed painfully to his face, his erection swelling and pushing hard against its restraints.
More glass exploded as a second blast rocked the earth. The night blossomed orange-red as bursts of flame shot up, blade-sharp tips stabbing the sky, slashing their way into the heavens.
“Fucking epic, dude.”
Shawn felt the heat of his friend’s breath on his neck, smelled the sweetness of a Pucker-Button, and was suddenly aware of nothing but Bobby’s warmth against him. His erection became painful as he lowered the binoculars and turned to his friend.
Fire reflected in Bobby’s eyes, lighting them up like stars. His mouth hung open as he stared at the smoldering diner, the hard candy resting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for Shawn to swoop in and retrieve it.
He did, sucking Bobby’s tongue into his mouth with it, and soon they were entwined in a deep, crushing kiss, hands all over as they pawed, groped, and tore clothing away.
Roxie’s diner had gone off like a firecracker, blasting in all directions, and now it was Shawn Barzetti and Bobby Beckstead who were about to explode.
By the time the fire sirens sounded, they were in a tangled, sweaty world of their own - a world that did not expand beyond their hiding place behind the bushes.
In the Dread of the Night
While the recent criminal activity in Prominence should have numbed Nick Grayson to shock, the bombing at Roxie’s Diner had shaken him up. The victims - Roxie Michaelson and Tiffany Rhodes - had been closing up shop when the bomb went off. It was one thing to see a dead body, but quite another to see someone blown to bits.
From what Nick could tell - with the help of the fire department and bomb squad - the homemade explosive had been planted in the men’
s bathroom and set to go off when the lights went on. This meant he was dealing with someone who not only knew about making bombs, but also understood wiring.
Nick finished the report then got out of the way to allow forensics and the fire department to do their thing. The bombing would be added to the growing list of investigations making one thing certain: There was too much crime in Prominence for the department to handle. Nick needed assistance - more deputies, more officers, the whole nine yards. And Clint Horace had shown up at the scene tonight staggering and reeking of booze. Though Nick had been tempted to fire him on the spot, he hadn’t. He’d need the extra hands during the Founder’s Day weekend so, instead, he’d sent him home with a firm warning before anyone else caught on.
Now Nick let himself into the house and brushed his teeth before falling into bed. It had been a long day, and when he hit the sheets it didn’t take long for sleep to take him. He’d expected to wake up several times during the night, jarred by gruesome dreams of what he’d seen at Roxie’s, but it wasn’t nightmares that woke him.
From the living room, the stereo blared to life with the crunching guitars and hard staccato drumbeats of Marilyn Manson’s The Beautiful People.
“Jesus Christ!” Nick shot out of bed, grabbing his gun from the dresser. Heart pounding, he raced down the hall following the unholy sounds of Marilyn Manson’s moans. He hit the power button and for good measure, reached behind the entertainment center and pulled the plugs. He stood a moment, stunned, catching his breath and collecting his thoughts. Rage replaced confusion. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted to the empty room. “I’ve had it! Do you hear me? What do you want?”
Rapid footsteps pounded down the hall toward him.
He whirled, aiming his gun at emptiness.
At the end of the hall his bedroom door slammed shut with bone-rattling force. Seconds later, the guest room door did the same. Then the bathroom. A low guttural groan sounded from the floor, as if something were prying apart the house’s foundation. The entire house moaned from its deepest joints.
His thoughts raced. What the hell is happening?
In the kitchen something crashed.
Glass shattered.
Nick darted toward it and came to a hard stop in the doorway.
The refrigerator door beat itself against the cupboards like a massive bird flapping its wing. A jar of mayonnaise shot out, crashing against the far wall. Eggs dived to their deaths. A gallon of milk hit the wall, exploding like a can of white paint. The fridge door continued slamming open and closed - Bam! Bam! Bam! - as contents rattled and broke.
The sink shot on. Steam began rising in thick misty clouds.
Nick held the gun in front of him, unable to think, unable to move as, one by one, his cupboards flew open, their contents blasting out like cannonballs.
Plates hit the walls and shattered.
Silverware rattled and jumped from drawers, clattering to the floor.
A coffee mug flew past him, would have hit him if he hadn’t jerked his head aside. It crashed against the wall behind him.
Then, despite the impossibility, the stereo came back to life, The Beautiful People picking up right where it had left off.
“Enough!” cried Nick. “Enough!”
All at once, the stereo went silent and the fridge door stopped beating the cupboards. Silverware, cups, and plates stopped flying. The sink turned off, leaving the small kitchen window above it fogged over. This isn’t happening, he thought. It can’t be.
Soft thunder rumbled outside and the gentle tick of rain tapped the windows.
Trembling, gun still raised, he said, “Show yourself, you coward.”
A squeak-grind sound drew his eye to the kitchen sink and he felt the blood drain from his face as he watched a single word form on the fogged glass: Can’t.
“Can’t? Do you mean you can’t show yourself?”
The invisible finger continued: Yes.
And then the glass was swiped clear and Nick saw the eyes. Twin glints - gold - staring at him from the other side.
And all at once, he recognized the face he’d seen so long ago, in a hospital room, after the car accident that had cost him his family. Memories of that face, that man, those eyes, crashed down on him like debris in a storm. You … it’s you ...
The room seemed to tip.
His stomach went sour.
His heart pounded out a frantic, irregular rhythm and his entire body broke into a sick, cold sweat. Nick Grayson thought he might faint. I have to get out of here. Now.
He nearly screamed when his phone rang.
He grabbed the phone, didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
After a beat of silence, then a woman’s voice came on. “Hello?”
“Hello?” Nick repeated.
“Hello?”
“Can I help you?” asked Nick.
“Who is this?” she asked.
Nick tried to clear the terror from his throat. “Excuse me?”
“I said, who is this?”
“Don’t you think I should be asking that question, ma’am?”
“What?” She sighed. “Look, I don’t know who this is or what game you’re trying to play, but it’s after three-”
“What game I’m trying to play? Look, lady, you called me.”
“I did not! And I don’t appreciate phone calls in the middle of the night!”
“Um …” Nick didn’t know what else to say.
Both were silent a long moment.
Had he called someone? Definitely not. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think-”
The woman on the other end said, “Wait a minute. Is this Chief Grayson?”
“I, uh, yeah. Who’s this?”
“It’s Beverly. Beverly Simon, of the Psychic Sidekick.”
The psychic? Beverly? Nick’s confusion grew.
* * *
“Hello!” Madison nearly dropped the phone in the darkness. A call at this hour could be bad news. “Hello?” she repeated.
“Who’s this?”
Madison couldn’t be sure but it sounded as if two people had asked the question in unison.
“This is Madison,” she said. “Who are you looking for?”
“What the hell?” said a man.
“Madison O’Riley?” asked a woman.
“Yes,” said Madison. “Who’s this?”
Beside her, Alejandro stirred, sat up, and turned on a lamp.
“This is Beverly Simon,” said the woman.
The man cleared his throat. “Nick Grayson here.”
Madison’s heart pounded harder. It must be an emergency! “What’s wrong? Has something happened?” She spoke quickly as Alejandro moved closer to her. “Is it Dette?”
“I don’t-”
Another voice, thick with sleep, cut Nick off. “Boy, you do have a wicked sense of timing, Bullet. What can I do for you?”
“Padre?” asked Nick. “What the unholy hell?”
“Well, that’s no way to-”
“Father Tom?” asked Beverly Simon.
Father Tom? As in Thomas Wainwright?
“Huh?” asked Father Tom.
Madison’s mind spun.
“Wait,” said Tom. “Who is this?”
“It’s me, Nick. And Beverly Simon.”
Beverly chimed in. “Madison O’Riley is here, too.”
“Madison O’Riley?” asked Tom. “What?”
Madison was baffled. “What’s going on?”
“All I know,” said Nick, “is I got a phone call from Beverly, and she says I called her, and-”
“You did call me!”
“And then you two showed up,” Nick finished. “I’m guessing your phones rang, too.”
“Yes,” said Madison. “It woke me up.”
“I certainly didn’t call any of you,” said Tom.
“What on earth?” That was Beverly.
“Did any of you have any numbers on your caller IDs?” asked Nick.
“No,”
said Beverly.
“Same here,” said Madison.
“Padre,” Nick asked, “did my number show up on your phone?”
He hesitated. “No. I have to admit, I’m finding this rather eerie.”
“It must be a glitch,” said Nick. “Crossed wires.”
Beverly gave a humorless laugh. “I’m inclined to think someone or something is trying to tell us something.”
Madison looked at Alejandro, who watched her with interest. What the hell is going on? Despite his warmth, Madison shivered.
“It’s just a glitch,” said Nick.
“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Seems awfully coincidental.”
“I’m with Tom,” said Beverly. “Something strange is happening and it has to do with you, Nick, and Madison’s friend.”
“Alejandro?” asked Madison.
“Yes.”
“And me?” asked Nick. “What could it have to do with me?”
“Or me, for that matter?” asked Tom.
“I don’t know,” said Beverly, “but I’ve been having … premonitions. Visions, actually. Very strong ones. And somehow, we’re all connected to them. I know it sounds-”
“What did you see?” asked Madison.
Beverly hesitated. “I think we need to discuss this face-to-face. All of us. I don’t trust the phone - not after this.”
“We’re having a barbecue at Nick’s on Sunday,” said Tom. “Why don’t you come?”
“I was hoping we could talk sooner,” said Beverly. “What about tomorrow?”
“I can’t tomorrow,” said Tom. “I’ve got a church event to oversee and I can’t ask my assistant to take over. I’ve already got him covering Sunday’s afternoon mass to attend the barbecue.”
“I can’t tomorrow, either,” said Madison. “I have to be at the fair. Dette and I had a bit of a fight and I don’t even know if she’ll show up to help me.”
“Okay,” said Beverly. “We’ll discuss this Sunday. Nick, I want to do a full reading of your house. Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely. It’s been so crazy here, I was going to check into a motel.”
“Don’t bother,” said Tom. “I’ve got a guest room. Come on over.”
3 a.m. Confessions
The Angel Alejandro Page 44