On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

  A noise made the two spirits look away and a flashlight beam flickered down the alley. It fell on me, shining through Todd and Marty like they weren’t standing there because, well, they weren’t really.

  “Police,” a voice called. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

  At first I thought it might be the murderer coming back, having left to fetch a light to see as he properly finished the job, so the thought of cops brought a brief sense of relief. Then reality set in--a supposedly dead guy sprawled across two corpses in a dark alley, no good reason to be here, and no one else around. Nope, no reason for suspicion here. All the muscles in my body tensed coaxing a lance of pain from the bump on the back of my head.

  “Put your hands where I can see them.”

  I started to do what the cop said but stopped before completing the task. As my right hand came up into my peripheral vision, I glimpsed what it unknowingly held: the killer’s knife. How convenient he’d left it with me. This didn’t bode well given what kind of shape Marty and Todd were in. Two witnesses to what really happened stood a few feet away, invisible and inaudible to the cops. Perhaps putting my hands in the air and not moving wasn’t the best option.

  “Get out of here, guys,” I told Todd and Marty, keeping my voice low. “Go to the toy store on Pullman. Someone will be waiting for you.”

  “But, Ric--”

  “Go.” I waved my hand at them like clearing a bad smell.

  “I said don’t move,” the cop shouted.

  Marty snagged Todd by the ethereal sleeve and led him away, both of them glancing back at me, or maybe at their bodies lying in coagulating pools of their blood. Yeah, probably not me. The cop’s light shone across Todd’s earthly face, illuminating the inverted cross carved into his forehead.

  “Shit.”

  It occurred to me this might not be the best place to be. I dropped the knife and started crabbing away from the mess I’d gotten myself into.

  “Halt,” the cop shouted with equal parts command and nerves.

  The flashlight blinded me. Everything I knew about police procedure, I’d learned watching ‘Law & Order’, so my information might not be accurate, but I assumed his weapon would be trained on me. Hell, if I headed into a dark alley where bad shit was going down, I’d probably have already shot me.

  The time for sneaking was past, the time for cut and run had come.

  I jumped up and bolted down the alley, black trench coat flapping. The cop yelled again, probably another warning about not moving, but I didn’t slow. A thunder clap echoed down the alley and shards of brick exploded off the wall to my left, showering across my shoulders.

  I ducked away from the shrapnel and pressed on, suddenly wondering if death was an option although I’d already been there, done that. How mortal am I? The goose egg on the back of my head throbbed in response.

  I leapt a pile of torn garbage bags, their contents strewn across my path, then skidded to a halt as the end of the alley loomed before me. In movie chases, the alley ends with a fence--tall but climbable--and the pursuee scrambles over into a busy China town. Failing that, a conveniently accessible fire escape to scale and escape by rooftop.

  No such luck.

  Instead, a windowless brick wall stood at the end of the alley, bounded by its identical twin brothers on either side. Overhead, at least ten feet off the ground, the bottom rung of a fire escape hung tauntingly, placed high enough to keep people from climbing up and taking to the roofs. With my vertical, it may as well have been a hundred feet up. I discovered a detail they leave out in the movies: the place reeked of garbage and excrement, enough to make me fight back my dinner. My energy drained out through the bottom of my feet and I felt like a guy who’d just woken from being knocked unconscious.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

  Back to the cops, I raised my hands. What happens next in cop shows? He slams me against the wall, anxious to punish me for the horrible crime I’ve committed before slapping the cuffs on me hard enough to leave bruises on my wrists for a week. Cue the music, cut to commercial.

  “Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I did what he said. The cop directed his light into my eyes, the beam tremoring in his hand. Couldn’t say I blamed him--he thought he’d caught a serial killer. Scary proposition, but a potential career maker. I decided to play it cool.

  “What happens now?”

  “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

  I’d forgotten about that cop move. I shuffled foot to foot, felt a squishiness beneath the sole of my shoe. My nostrils flared.

  “Aw, come on--”

  “Get down!”

  His tone suggested that, if I didn’t do what he said, we’d soon find out exactly how mortal I was. Wetness soaked the knees of my jeans as I knelt and laced my fingers over the goose egg on the back of my head. A second cop cut across the flashlight beam, giving me a wide berth to come up from behind. He put a foot into my back, pushed me forward. I kept my face from slamming into the garbage-covered pavement then the cop straddled me, grabbing my arms. The cold metal cuffs slapped against my wrist, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I grunted, cheek rested on the ground, breath held to keep the stench from gagging me. The cops yelled obscenities at me, feeling tough now they’d neutralized me. They spoke to each other and into mikes pinned to their shoulders. I ignored them. Eventually, they dragged me to my feet and led me out of the alley. As I passed the mutilated bodies, I wondered why this had happened, how the scroll could be wrong. And if Marty and Todd found their way to the toy store.

  For their sake, I hoped so.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A few years had passed since I last occupied a cell and the budget for redecorating looked to have been non-existent since my last visit: sink, toilet, gray concrete floor, green paint flaking off the walls, metal cot with mattress squeaky enough everyone knew when you masturbated. Jail’s the last place demanding originality or creativity. They could at least spring for a different brand of cot.

  The man stood staring at me, one hand grasping an unpainted metal bar of my cage. He didn’t match the uniformed cops who brought me in, so he must be higher up the police food chain. His obviously cheap suit, probably the only one he owned, looked like it had been purchased a long while ago at a discount place specializing in last year’s styles. If he’d pressed his half-untucked shirt before arriving at work that morning, no hint of the effort remained; his tie was pulled down from his open top button, relieving the irritated, razor-burned skin at his throat. He didn’t say anything for a while, just watched me with a disquieting look. I expected interrogation, accusation, intimidation, but not this. Would he be good cop or bad? I squirmed under his gaze, considered asking what the hell he was looking at, but he likely wanted such a reaction, so I stared back, doing my best not to fidget. After five minutes of a staring contest with many blinks but no winner, he finally broke the silence.

  “Who are you?” His tone harbored no malice, merely sounded like a man whose shift finished many hours ago with still no hope of the end in sight. The dark circles under his eyes suggested my assessment might be in the vicinity of the truth. “Why don’t you tell me so I can go home.”

  See?

  I didn’t answer. I thought about requesting a lawyer--it seemed like the authentic thing to do--but why? They caught me at the scene, murder weapon in hand, bodies at my feet. Oh, and I shared one quality with the victims: I’d been murdered six months before. Persona non grata, or whatever-the-hell they call it. Case closed. What would a lawyer do for me? Keep me out of the electric chair?

  The suit--presumably a detective if my television training steered me right--leaned closer to the cell door. A faint tan line marked the ring finger of his left hand.

  “Come on, buddy. It’s been a long day and I got things to do. Tell me who you are and why you did it, and I’ll make sure they go easy on you.”

  I snickered and looked away. This was an inte
rrogation? Here in my cell? Shouldn’t he drag me off to a room with two chairs, a table, an ancient cassette recorder and people watching behind a two-way mirror? He’d offer me coffee, a cigarette, pretend to be my friend until my un-cooperative nature provoked him into yelling, calling me a monster, grabbing me by the collar until someone jumped in to keep him from beating me. Instead, it seemed he wanted to make me feel bad about the length of his day, force me to talk by instilling guilt for his lack of sleep. The Miami Vice writers would be disappointed.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  His knuckles went white. I’d spoken, given him hope he might go home. Maybe saving his marriage was what he needed to do, or maybe mourning it. I knew the feeling.

  “Try me.”

  “My name’s Icarus Fell. I died six months ago.”

  He let go of the bars, arms sagging to his sides. “Okay, you lost me joker. Nobody’s got a name like that.”

  His shoulders slumped and he ran stubby fingers through ebony hair, the fight drained from him.

  “I’m going home. Take the night to think about what you’ve done, about what will happen to you. I’ll see you in the morning.” He moved away down the hall. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  I lay on the cot, springs protesting beneath my weight, and closed my eyes. Being in jail bothered me, but so many other things occupied my mind: the cross carved on Todd’s forehead, and Phil and the others Poe showed me in the newspaper. And missing the opportunity to come two more souls closer to pressing the restart button.

  Why hadn’t I been in time to stop it?

  The scroll was wrong, but how? And who bore such a vendetta against me that they’d take it out on others but leave me alive when I was right there, unconscious and at their mercy?

  In the darkness of the alley, the desperation of the struggle, I didn’t see a face and doubted I’d have recognized it if I did. Probably a demonic hit man sent to make my life miserable for taking this job. Living on the street, worrying about scoring dope was so much simpler.

  As my thoughts turned to Marty and Todd and whether they made it to the toy store or were dragged off to Hell, sleep overtook me. The sandman held me tight enough in his clutches to make it difficult determining if I dreamed the voice or actually heard it.

  “Icarus.”

  I blinked and stared up at the gray ceiling, waiting to see if the word repeated now I knew it wasn’t a dream.

  “Icarus Fell.”

  “Ric.” I pushed myself up to my elbows, expecting the detective to have returned with more questions before calling it a night. The bump at the back of my head flared. “Call me Ric.”

  Not the tired-looking cop this time. Instead, the man at the bars wore priest’s vestments, a bible clutched in both hands at his chest, looking as if he’d stepped straight from the pulpit. The smile pulling his lips taut might easily have been mistaken for a leer. A jolt of panic raced through my veins as I thought they’d sent him to read my last rites. The thought must have showed plainly on my face.

  “That’s not why I’m here, Icarus. Not yet.”

  I rubbed my eyes to clear the sleep from them and sat up for a better look. I’d not seen his face before, but his tone and the way he held himself struck me as familiar. That not-really-a-smile smile. It took a second to click.

  “Father Dominic.”

  He nodded.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “God has nothing to do with it this time.” He shifted and I glanced at his hands. His fingernails were gone, the bible in his hands upside-down. “You might say he and I had a parting of ways. Thanks to you.” He turned sideways and shimmered as he passed through the bars into my cell.

  It was him. He did it.

  That explained how the man in the alley interacted with Todd’s spirit. I moved away, tucking myself into a ball at the end of the cot by my pillow.

  “What do you want?”

  “You betrayed me.” He sat on the end of the cot. The mattress didn’t squeak under his ass, the blanket didn’t budge. “You had the opportunity to take me, to allow me to live out eternity at the feet of my heavenly father. Instead, you let Azrael have me. Did you think there would be no consequences? Did you really believe I would be led off to Hell and leave you to live out your joke of a life in comfort?”

  I stared at him. A vein pulsed at his temple. Part of me thought about apologizing for the slight, but it wouldn’t have been sincere. After the things he’d done to me, he deserved what he got. His expression went stony as though he heard my thoughts.

  “I suppose, in a way, I should thank you. Not going to Heaven has freed me to do things I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

  “Collect stamps? Learn to tango?”

  He grinned and I swear blood stained his teeth, like he’d been tearing the flesh from puppies before popping in to visit.

  “No, my hobby is much more fulfilling than any of those.”

  “What, then? Murdering innocent people?”

  “Punishing you.”

  My heart skittered in my chest like a cat taking a corner on hardwood floors. When it gained traction, I sucked a lung-full of air through my nose. The deceased priest gave off an odd smell: burnt toast and wet earth.

  Do I smell like that?

  “Leave them alone.” I felt the cords in my neck standing out. “They’re not responsible for you going to Hell. I was. Take it out on me.”

  “Tut, tut, dear Icarus.” His eyes bore into me, flickering with the same menacing spark I’d seen in the eyes of the Carrions. “I am taking it out on you. For condemning me and more.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He leaned forward, baring his teeth. I cowered, chastising myself for falling prey to his theatrics.

  “You are the issue of an unholy coupling.” Spittle flew from his lips. “Your mother was a saint. And she was damned to Hell the moment you were conceived.”

  “My mother? This is about her?”

  “Your mother was a child of God. She didn’t want you. She didn’t want what happened to her, but she couldn’t resist. She’s not to blame, yet she spends eternity reliving sins that should never have been hers. It’s your sire’s fault.”

  “I don’t know my father.”

  He grinned again and stood, the blankets where he sat undisturbed.

  “Oh, yes. You do.” He shook the bible at me and I saw it was not only upside-down, but the ‘Holy Bible’ on its cover was written backwards.

  I looked around frantically for something to use as a weapon. But we were in a prison cell, a place known for being weapon-free. The blanket wouldn’t do him much damage. I felt anger burning in my cheeks.

  “You don’t have to do this. I’m not responsible for what happened to her.”

  “Yes, I do.” He looked up, the grin climbing back onto his lips, red teeth and all. “You’re still responsible for what happened to me. And I can’t punish him; he’s untouchable. Which leaves you: his progeny.”

  “But...” My head spun, teetering on the edge of comprehension. Why do angels and demons use such big words? I’d have called him a madman, but he was clearly not a man and mad seemed an understatement. His eyes flared, the spark in their depths burning hot. “I don’t know whose punishment I’m taking.”

  “Think.” He backed away toward the bars. “Why did Michael choose you as a harvester of souls? What is so special about a loser like you to make you suitable for the job?”

  I looked at him through slitted, suspicious eyes. He crossed his arms impatiently.

  “Who did the job before you?”

  My eyes widened.

  Azrael.

  “That’s right...Azrael. He took your mother from me and I could do nothing to seek revenge, so I had you. God has seen to punishing that poor excuse for an angel. That debt has been paid. But you...you turned me over to him, to Hell. That will not go unpunished. A trip to Heaven would have prevented my revenge.”


  “No!”

  I leapt off the cot, hands reaching for his throat, but he stepped back, melting through the bars. I slammed into the metal door with a clank that rattled my head and sent pain shooting down my spine. He stood back, tantalizingly out of reach, the bloody grin plastered on his kisser.

  “I’m going to take the lives of everyone about whom you’ve ever cared. Perhaps if you ask nicely, they’ll give you a newspaper so you can read about the deaths of your loved ones.”

  I swung at him. My fingers clawed the air inches from his face.

  “Don’t do it. Take me instead.”

  “Oh, I’ll get to you. Be sure of that.” He started down the hall at a pace like marching a death row inmate to his execution. “But not until you’ve suffered the way I suffered your mother’s death, the way I suffered all those years watching you grow like an incurable cancer. The way I’ve suffered in Hell.”

  “You’re insane,” I yelled after him. “I won’t let you do it.”

  “Don’t worry, Icarus, I’ll stretch it out for you, make it nice and painful. I’ll save your most loved for last.”

  His laughter echoed down the hall, bouncing from bare wall to bare wall even after he’d disappeared. I slumped onto the mattress, head hung between my knees. His threat set one name repeating in my head:

  Trevor.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I paced the eight-by-eight cell, alternately rattling the bars to draw attention and slamming my palm against the wall in anger, accomplishing nothing but a sore hand. After a half-hour, I sat back on the cot, breathing deep in an effort to collect myself. Anger and frustration wouldn’t get me out of here.

  First I thought about Trevor and Rae. I had to warn them about the danger from that lunatic, protect them. And Sister Mary-Therese. Surely, Father Dominic wouldn’t harm her, not when they’d been so close.

  Or would he?

  He’d already gotten everyone else I’d cared about: my drinking buddies, the only woman other than Rae I’d loved, the closest thing I’d had to a father. For once, not having many friends might be a good thing. Thinking about his potential victims heightened my frustration, so I did my best to think of anything else. Unfortunately, the next thing to come to mind was Azrael.