More police cars had arrived to join the others. I heard orders shouted, the high-pitched barking sound of gunfire, and screams of confusion as the weapons fell silent.
Anton said, “Bob can’t take them all on by himself.”
Mike slapped Stanley on the back and propelled him forward. “You go with Anton,” he said. “I’ll help Bob.”
Stanley did as he was told and raced over.
Mike headed down the other end of the alley, past the rusted police car, to aid the other Watcher. A moment later, I saw a squad car fly high above the skyline, hang for a moment a few hundred feet in the air, and then come crashing down.
Anton got Brigson to his feet, and ordered him to continue to the van.
A black SUV pulled into the alley, but it was not a police vehicle. Three men jumped out. Two of them wore dark suits and wielded semi-automatic rifles: private security? The third man was armed with a cross on a rosary.
Father Larry Putnam!
How had he gotten here?
Immediately, Anton planted his feet and put his hands to his head. The two security men hurriedly brought their rifles up to bear, and one of them managed to squeeze off an ill-aimed round before both of them screamed. They dropped their rifles and fell to their knees. One threw his hands over his face as if trying to ward off some kind of invisible attack. The other began slapping at his arms, chest and neck, as if he were being swarmed by lethal insects.
Only Putnam remained unaffected by the mental attack of the angel of nightmares. With his crucifix held in front of him like a holy shield, he continued walking toward us.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the cries of terror from his men, but it seemed to me he was muttering some kind of prayer. Anton continued his own attack, his body vibrating from the effort.
The priest walked past the van and was twenty feet away when Stanley, who had been standing behind the others, turned tail and ran back toward Mike, Bob, and the police.
Noticing he was alone, and that his supernatural efforts were not having any effect on Putnam, Anton let out a roar of frustration. He reached beneath his jacket and drew out a pistol. He pointed it at Putnam, whose cross and prayers would not protect him from any mundane assault.
My hands still cuffed behind me, I launched myself into Anton, knocking him over just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot went wide, splintering the front windshield of his van. Unable to maintain my balance, I fell on top of him, and I heard the breath rush out of his lungs. I wasn’t exactly a featherweight.
He recovered quickly, and slammed an elbow into my face. Pain exploded through my jaw and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Reeling from the blow, I couldn’t get my bearings as he rolled out from under me and got to his feet.
By this time, his spell had worn off the two security men, and they scrambled to retrieve their rifles.
Anton wasn’t going to give up as easily as Stanley; he stood in the same stance as before, and—
—I was face-to-face with Lawrence Bukowski. His enormous hand reached out to grasp my head. He was going to suck the life out of me, and there was nothing I could do about it. I heard myself screaming and—
The image broke as a loud shot rang through my ears.
Alders had dived to the ground and picked up Anton’s gun. Lying on her side, her back to us, she tried to aim as best she could … and it was good enough.
The bullet ripped through Anton’s calf. He howled like he was being eaten by a wild animal.
Even through the pain, he put his hands to his head and—
—My entire body was crawling with growth. The long tendrils of skin pulsed and wiggled as if alive. I could feel the life flow out of me like the water draining from a tub. I was dying a horrible death—
I snapped back out of the nightmare, gasping for breath, and struggled to sit up. With my hands bound behind me, and being as overweight as I was, it wasn’t the easiest of tasks.
Anton, his injured leg dragging on the pavement, hopped away from us, his cries of pain echoing behind him. I could have sworn he was wet, even as steam rose off his clothes.
On the other side of us, Putnam dropped a water bottle to the ground—holy water? I wondered. He leaned over his men and helped them to their feet.
“You all right?” Alders asked from beside me. She was kneeling, and her face was pale as if all the blood had rushed out of it. What had her nightmare been?
“Yeah,” I said. “That was a lucky shot. How did you manage to get a round off? And why didn’t you go for a body shot?”
A flash of color rose to her cheeks. “I had no idea I was shooting him. I only saw a pack of diseased rats swarming me.”
That was why she’d shot him in the lower part of his leg. Still, that she’d had the wherewithal to fire the gun was impressive. I’d been completely incapacitated. It was then that I noticed her touching the cross pendant her mother had given her.
Flanked by his two men, Putnam approached us at a walk.
One of the men went to Brigson and undid his handcuffs, then got him to his feet.
“Putnam,” I said. “How?”
He smirked in that superior way he had. “The moment the ‘all points’ went out, the precinct emptied pretty quickly. Those who remained were naturally in a state of distraction. My men here were standing by; they posed as FBI to get in. From there, it was extremely simple for us to get out again. Well,” he added, “aside from the one clerk who got too snoopy for his own good.”
“You bastard,” I growled and started to push myself up from the ground.
The second man leveled the barrel of his rifle at me.
The priest put up a hand for his man to hold his fire. “Not to worry,” Putnam said. “The clerk will have a headache for a day or two, but he’s fine.”
I let my breath out.
The priest said, “By the way, thank you for finding Clarence for me, Detective Hollingsworth.”
I snarled, “I didn’t find him for you…”
One side of the priest’s lips curled up in a humorless smile.
“Now that you’ve seen the true evil of these Watchers up close, Detective, you have a choice: you can join me in stopping them, or you can go back to your people and take your chances with them.”
Chapter Eighteen
And now instruct him that he may escape and his seed may be preserved for all the generations of the world. And again the Lord said to Raphael: Bind Azazel hand and foot, and cast him into the darkness: and make an opening in the desert, which is in Dudael, and cast him therein. And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there forever, and cover his face that he may not see light.
–Book of Enoch 10:3-7
Although Putnam’s security team had proven ineffective against the Watcher, the priest had been able to block his attacks. Whether it was the religious trinkets he wore, or his own faith, it didn’t matter to me.
What mattered was that the former member of the Society of Exorcists might just be in a position to stop the fallen angels, no matter how much of a lunatic I thought he was.
When you had to choose between two evils, the common wisdom was to go with the lesser. While Putnam might have supernatural countermeasures, he was just as mortal as I was. I only had to bide my time, and arrest him when the opportunity was ripe.
Putting one hand on my knee to stabilize myself, I groaned as I got to my feet. Alders was already up, and she was looking back and forth between the priest and me.
I said, “Lead the way.”
Alders widened her eyes at me in surprise, but didn’t say anything; instead, she pressed her lips together tightly.
Putnam, as if immediately accepting my capitulation, turned on his heel and hurried back to the SUV. The two armed men shouldered their weapons and, guiding Brigson, followed the priest.
I motioned for Alders to come along with me. Though her limp was noticeably better, she still winced with every step.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Alders muttered too low for the others to hear.
“I hope so, too,” I said.
* * *
I was brimming with questions, but the scene unfolding outside the SUV windows as we drove through the shadowed streets of Brooklyn was beyond unsettling. Our progress was painfully slow because the traffic was worse than rush hour before a long weekend.
A third hired man, also dressed in the same black attire as the two other members of the security team, drove the vehicle with marked expertise, weaving this way and that to get ahead of the crowd.
Thousands of people had decided to get out of the city in a mass exodus. These weren’t members of the judicial community; they were ordinary folk who anticipated the chaos that would visit their neighborhoods tonight.
We were several blocks away from where the Watchers and police were clashing, and even in the darkened night sky, I could see pillars of smoke rising above the rooftops. All around us, there were similar signs of destruction.
I spotted a few roaming bands of people, though there was no way to tell if they were actual gangs or just groups of youths taking advantage of the lawlessness of the night.
Some cars had been overturned; others were on fire. Shop windows were smashed as well as those from the lower levels of apartment buildings. Several people were fighting in the streets. Occasionally, we heard the sharp retort of a gunshot.
Looking through the windows of the other cars on the road, I saw worry, fear, and despair. It was everything a terrorist could hope for.
“Madness!” Putnam said in a hiss. “They will bring the end of days. What could they be thinking?”
I shook my head. “It’s a coup,” I said.
“What?”
I took a deep breath. “They’re undermining everyone’s faith in the government and police; then, when things have gotten bad enough, they’ll step in and use their powers to restore peace. They’re setting themselves up as saviors. The takeover is beginning.”
“How do you know this?” Putnam asked.
It was Alders who replied. “We heard him talking after the video broadcast.”
“Him?”
I nodded. “The Bellator.”
“The warrior. So that’s what he’s calling himself,” the priest said.
Giving him an inquisitive look, I said, “You say ‘he’ like you know who he is.”
“From the first time I saw the video, I suspected the identity of the fallen angel who has possessed him—and now I’m sure of it—though I don’t know the identity of the host himself.”
“And…?” I asked. “Who is the Bellator?”
“Azazel,” Putnam said with an acid tone. “Angel of war. Second-in-command of the two hundred fallen.”
“Now he’s first-in-command,” I said.
That seemed to surprise the priest. “What?”
“Sam Lancaster is dead. I don’t know how. Semjaza’s transferred to his cousin, Stanley. The guy is as green as it gets. So, for now, he’ll be nothing more than a figurehead.”
Putnam narrowed his eyes a moment, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at Brigson, who was still in a stupor. “Once we snap him out of whatever state he’s in, we’ll get to work.” A moment later, he spoke in a hoarse voice. “What did they do to him?”
“Nightmares,” I said, and then jerked my head toward the physicist. “It’s hard enough to recover from them for the rest of us, but for someone who has schizophrenia…”
Looking at me sharply, Putnam asked, “How did you know?”
“I found an empty prescription bottle at your office.”
“Thankfully, I have some at my headquarters. Once we get Clarence back on his meds, he’ll recover quickly,” Putnam said, though it sounded more like hope than fact.
“What is it, exactly, that he can do?” I asked.
“He’s working on a virus that will only affect those with the unique genetic markers found in the hosts.”
I made a face. “You’re going to give them a cold?”
“The virus is a nothing more than the delivery system,” Putnam said. “The strain will carry a secondary compound, one that codes to the very specific genetic makeup of Watcher hosts. If the projections are correct, it will have a ninety-nine percent fatality rate.”
Reeling at the thought, I couldn’t make my mouth work.
Alders said, “How soon will it be ready?”
I gave her a hard look, and she recoiled.
“What?” she asked.
Putnam answered for me. “Your colleague has obviously had an unfortunate streak of conscience.”
“Why?” Alders looked between the two of us. “What’s so bad about wiping them out? They’ve killed cops and their families, and now they’ve put a price on every lawyer’s or judge’s head in the city. They need to be stopped.”
Instead of addressing Alders, I asked Putnam a question. “How many people do you estimate carry the gene, and how many of them are a host to a fallen angel?”
The priest spoke to Alders in a mild voice. “There are no more than sixty possessed people in the world. If all the fallen angels returned, there would be two hundred. That’s it.”
Alders whistled. “Two hundred…”
“No,” I said, “tell her how many people are potential hosts. How many innocent civilians will die as a result of this engineered virus?”
Putnam’s jaw clenched. “A paltry number compared to how many will die if we do nothing.”
Alders’ eyes widened, and she pressed the question, “How many?”
Putnam looked out the window. “Ten thousand or so. Maybe more.”
“What?” Alders paled.
With a sardonic smile, Putnam said, “It’s a simple choice: sacrifice a few thousand, or let the Watchers conquer the world, and have everyone suffer. Which do you prefer, Officer?”
She shook her head. “There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t,” the priest shot back. “Everything we’ve tried has failed, and in some cases, it has inadvertently served their cause. This is the only choice.” He stared hard into my eyes, challenging me to refute his decision.
At one time, I would have entirely agreed with him. Lawrence Bukowski had been a hardened criminal before he’d been infected with the unholy spirit of a fallen angel. The Casanova Killer had a record of sexual assault before becoming possessed. Sam Lancaster was a racketeer and con artist. As far as I knew, the fallen angels chose those who already had a pattern of sociopathic behavior.
Darcy Anderson, Richard Riley, and Kyle Chase also fell into that category. In contrast, however, they were generally good people who were more victims of circumstance and their own imperfect temperament than hardened criminals. Did they deserve to die? No, they didn’t; and neither did the thousands of others whose worst crime was to be born into the bloodline of fallen angels.
I wasn’t about to argue with Putnam. Even if he didn’t have two armed security guards ready to shoot Alders and me should we prove less than helpful, I knew I wouldn’t be in a position to stop Putnam from his mad scheme unless I could convince him I was firmly with him.
“You have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelet, right?” I said grimly, and pointedly ignored the look of horror Alders gave me.
I could tell she was going to confront me, but I was saved from having to try to keep her from blowing my scheme when a soda bottle impacted the front windshield of the SUV. The driver barked out a curse as the glass cracked and spider-webbed.
“Get us out of here,” Putnam ordered.
I looked past them and saw there was a traffic jam at the intersection up ahead. Pointing off to the side, I said, “There’s an alley right there. We could take our chances.”
Before Putnam could confirm the suggestion, the driver turned the wheel hard and hit the accelerator. We jumped the curb, and two youths who had been sharing a joint screamed in alarm and hopped out
of the way. Several other pedestrians scattered as the SUV barreled down the sidewalk. Before we got to the entrance of the alley, the driver swerved into traffic, clipping the front of a minivan, before turning back between two buildings.
The alley was deserted, and we made our way to the next block.
The traffic was somewhat lighter, and using the same trick two more times when needed, the driver got us to the Gowanus Expressway more or less intact.
Pointing the SUV southwest, we drove a few miles before heading into the dock area facing the Hudson River.
We pulled into an old waterfront warehouse—I assumed this was the place Putnam had referred to as his headquarters—and we all got out of the SUV. The place was quite small, and didn’t look like it had been used for its intended purpose for some years.
The man who was assisting Brigson brought him into the main office—I spotted an old, ratty couch through a large window looking out into the warehouse—while Putnam directed us to another part of the building.
We followed him into a break room. The priest motioned for us to take a seat at the table while he went over to the counter and began the ritualistic task of making coffee.
“I assume everyone wants a cup,” he said as he measured the grounds.
“If you’ve got anything to eat,” I said, “I’m starving.” I avoided the looks Alders was giving me.
Putnam motioned toward the refrigerator. “There might be something in there. Help yourself.”
The security man held a casual posture, but I could tell he was keeping alert to any treachery on my part as I hastened to the fridge and weighed my options. There were three sandwiches left over from a large plastic platter, and I grabbed two. Going back to the table, I set one down in front of Alders, but she didn’t make any attempt to take it.
“So,” I said as I unwrapped my sandwich and bit in, “how’d you luck into finding Brigson?”
Putnam, having finished setting up the coffee brewer, turned to us and rested his back against the countertop.
“For that, I have you to thank again.”
“Me?”
“Yes, when you filed your report in Chicago, and the D.A. ordered the seizure of Enoch Enterprises, many of their employees went underground—no one wanted to be prosecuted.” He cocked his head. “Clarence was one of the scientists analyzing the senior Dr. Chase’s research. When he learned the true nature of the Watcher’s plans, he knew they had to be stopped. With nowhere else to turn, once the authorities shut the company down, he reached out to me. He knew who I was because of the newspaper article where you so kindly mentioned my part in those events.
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 91