Diabolical

by Hank Schwaeble

  A surge of adrenaline accelerated his heart. The one from the right landed in front of him bursting into the light, front paws padding first, rear paws following and springing past him to his left. The other shot from the left in almost identical fashion. They almost touched as they crossed.

  Cats. Run-of-the-mill, garden-variety cats. Tabbies. Maybe a tad on the large side, but no bigger than plenty of others he’d seen.

  He peered up into the recesses along the walls. Nothing. There was just enough diffuse light for him to trace the contours of shadow. The only thing hiding there was rock.

  He stood and turned to look back where Soliya had left. It was the same direction from which he’d entered. There was a single large opening at that end, more like the mouth of a tunnel than a cave. He walked toward it, exited out into the light. A rocky, sandy path the width of a road curved out and down, descending through hill country. Gnarly shrubs and clumps of tall grass staked claims between boulders of varying sizes.

  Above the mouth of the cave, patches of dead brush dotted the craggy hill face. Hatcher studied it for several seconds, then checked the surrounding area again. The location looked vaguely familiar.

  Using his teeth, he ripped through the plastic ratchet case of the zip tie and freed his hands. He glanced once more at the opening, then walked through it again, heading toward the largest of the three openings at the other end. He ran a hand against a wall as he moved. It really was more of a tunnel than a cave, he realized, barely fifteen or twenty yards deep. Man-made, blasted out of the rock. He kept walking. It emptied on the other end into a quarrylike area between hills that resembled a canyon. Hardy greenery and burned-out sagebrush competed with chunks of fallen rock for space.

  He stepped out into the expanse of dry hardpan and took in the view. I’ll be damned, he thought, shaking his head.

  His mind wrestled with a number of things as he inspected himself. His jeans were incorrectly buttoned, as if carelessly refastened. There was a lingering taste of something like tobacco mixed with a honey sweetness in his mouth. He could smell the gamey remnants of sex wafting off him as he fixed his pants.

  He stared down at the pool of his shadow around his feet, thinking. Then he took one more look at the view, running a hand over his hair. A chuckle started to surface, but died somewhere in his throat.

  In the distance between two of the slopes was another hillside. From just below its peak a word blared out at him in blocks of enormous white letters:

  HOLLYWOOD

  CHAPTER 7

  HATCHER WAS TEMPTED TO STRETCH OUT IN THE CAVE FOR A much-needed nap but drove back to Venice Beach instead. He stopped off at a Target on the way, bought a couple of prepaid disposable cell phones using his debit card, and headed to his apartment. He dropped into bed as soon as he got there and managed to get three hours’ worth of sleep before a knock woke him.

  The room was bathed in angled sunlight, forcing him to squint. He heard another knock. The tiny alarm clock on his nightstand told him it was late in the afternoon. His head and body ached when he stood. Stretching, he staggered on stiff legs toward the door.

  His landlord was standing on the porch landing. Guy named Ling. Short, Asian, mid-sixties. A bad comb-over and liver spots on his cheeks and brow. No surprise it was Ling, because no one else ever came to his door. Practically no one knew where he lived.

  Ling looked up as Hatcher leaned a forearm against the jamb.

  “You look awful,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’d still look awful hours from now.”

  The man didn’t smile. Never changed expressions, as far as Hatcher could tell. He had affable eyes, but that was about it. It was like talking to a friendly robot. A friendly Chinese robot with a bit of a lisp.

  “That your car in the back? Thought it must be yours.”

  “Do you want me to move it?”

  “No. I just wanted to tell you, someone came by looking for you. A man. Cop maybe. He was wearing a sport coat and tie. Shoes needed a shine.”

  “When?”

  “Earlier. Before lunch. Thought you should know.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No.”

  Hatcher dragged a hand down his face. “What did you tell him?”

  “I pretended I didn’t understand a word he was saying, told him ‘no speak ing-rish.’ He left.”

  “Thanks, Ling.”

  “You in trouble?”

  “Not the way you’re thinking. It’s complicated. I appreciate you keeping quiet about me.”

  “You kidding? You pay your rent on the first of the month, in cash. No worries about a check bouncing that way. You never make a sound that I can hear, and you somehow manage to use less electricity than when the place was vacant. Last tenant I had, place smelled like pot all the time. Always had music shaking my windows in the middle of the night. Always had a sob story about why the rent was late. If someone’s looking for you, they’re not going to get any help from old Ling.”

  Even though Hatcher always assumed Ling was his last name, he had no idea whether it actually was or not. He had never had a long enough conversation with him to find out. Part of him felt bad about that, but part of him also figured Ling was better off that way.

  “If he comes back, let me know.”

  Ling waved in agreement, headed down the wrought-iron staircase.

  Hatcher shut the door, listened to the receding steps. So, he thought, somebody, maybe a cop, is looking for me. Bartlett? No. He obviously knew how to find him. Had to be someone else. He had no idea what that meant, but doubted it could be anything good.

  He made his way to his kitchen space and mixed a protein shake, chased down three Advil with it. He would have loved to have gone back to sleep, but he knew if he crawled back onto the bed, he would just lay there with his eyes open. The restlessness that had given way to exhaustion earlier was back in full force. He finished the drink, rinsed out the glass. With the tap running, he peered down into the sink. Watched the water circle the drain, thinking.

  The studio apartment he rented sat over his landlord’s garage. After Vivian had left, it was just what he needed. Modestly furnished, utilities included. Saw an ad in a local sheet, put up two months’ rent as deposit. It was small but more than adequate. Private, functional. And after months of confinement and a dozen years of army life, the place seemed practically palatial. There was a small flat-screen TV on a stand and a combination radio/CD player on a bookshelf. A laptop computer sat by itself on a small desk in the corner. Cable and internet were part of the deal, though he rarely used either.

  The laptop was almost forced on him by Denny. It was a few years old with a full few years’ worth of use but worked fine. He’d given it to Hatcher instead of cash for helping him clean out a storage unit. It’d only taken a couple of hours, so Hatcher didn’t object, even though he saw no need to own a PC. Denny had disagreed, and seemed to take his lack of a computer personally. Hatcher had figured he could use one at the library if he had to and didn’t have the slightest interest in idling away time surfing news sites or chatting with strangers.

  But here it was and he was glad to have it. He fired it up, waited for it to boot, then jumped on the internet. A Google search for “Nora Henruss,” found nothing. Couldn’t find anyone with the name “Henruss” at all. He tried “Isaac Warren,” and had the opposite problem.

  He’d finished Googling local pizza deliveries to his zip code before he finally admitted he was procrastinating. He fetched one of the new TracFones from next to the bed and cut open the packaging with a pair of scissors. He followed the instructions to activate it, then fished a business card out of his wallet.

  He lowered himself into one of the chairs of his dinette set. He tapped the edge of the card several times against the tabletop with the other, staring at it. The laptop made a noise in the background as it slipped into hibernation mode, nudging him back into himself. His eyes jumped to th
e phone and he thumbed the number into the keypad. He hesitated for several seconds before pressing send.

  Three rings. Four.

  “Hello?”

  Hatcher took in a breath and held it, steeling himself. “Amy.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Jake.”

  The line went quiet, time dripping from one moment into the next. He listened to the digital hum coming over the connection and waited.

  “Jake . . . Hatcher?” she finally said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was questioning.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. Didn’t expect this one.”

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Good. I’m good. I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. Considering you never called. Or returned any of my letters. Or even made the slightest effort to get in touch with me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He could hear street noises in the background, the bleating of horns, the din of voices. Sounds of the city. For several seconds, that was all he heard.

  “I don’t suppose you called just to apologize.”

  “No. I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

  “Right. So, why are you calling?”

  “I need a favor.”

  She seemed to digest that for a few moments before responding. Something about the pause told him if it wasn’t the worst thing to say, it was probably pretty close.

  “Where are you?”

  “Venice Beach. California.”

  “Was that the farthest place you could find?”

  Actually, he thought, yes. That was always the reason he figured Vivian had suggested it. But he doubted that would go over well. “The weather’s nice.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “I know this is awkward. I need some help, Amy.”

  “Are you in jail?”

  “No, nothing like that. I need you to help me find someone. You’re pretty much the only one I can think of who can do that kind of thing.”

  “You mean, like, a driver’s license search? NCIC?”

  “Something like that.”

  The silence that followed was deep enough he could almost hear her thoughts echoing across the airwaves, thoughts about the nerve he must have, calling to ask such a thing, what a callous schmuck he was, how only someone with an incredible ego and no regard for the feelings of others could be expected to act this way.

  Then he heard her exhale into the phone as if she’d been holding her breath.

  “I don’t know, Jake. It’s not like on television. They’ve cracked down on that kind of thing. You have to log in, have a case number. They don’t like us fishing and won’t tolerate us using police resources to help private investigations.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “Is this connected to . . . what happened? The stuff with Valentine?”

  “Sort of. Maybe. I don’t really know. It’s similar. I just need to find this person, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Don’t put it that way.”

  “I’m just saying I won’t ask for anything else.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Nora Henruss.” He spelled it for her.

  “Anything I should know about her?”

  “Remember Susan Warren? She had a son. There might be some connection.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Thank you, Amy. I mean it.”

  “So,” she said, her tone softening. “How are you, Jake? Are you okay?”

  “Not ready to throw in the towel just yet.”

  “Jake . . . I have to know. Was it something I did?”

  “No.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  “I’ll see if I can find something. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Probably, but I’ll call you back in a day or two.”

  “That your way of saying, ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly wishing the call could be different, that he could be different. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I’ll explain some other time. Call me if you find something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you, Amy.”

  “One more thing, Hatcher.”

  He listened, waiting for her to finish the thought.

  “I never believed Dan committed suicide,” she said. “Not for a second.”

  Hatcher struggled for a response until he realized the phone had gone dead in his hand.

  PERRY CHECKED HIS WATCH AS HE EXITED THE FREEWAY onto San Rafael and turned right on Colorado. Knowing he was on schedule seemed important. He just wasn’t sure what the schedule was for.

  All he knew was he wanted to step back into his old life, immediately. Go back to being who he was, what he was. Forget as much of the past night’s events as he could. Go back to the Game.

  He turned onto Melrose, and almost as soon as it merged into Sixty-fourth Avenue he saw the church on the left.

  There was a lot across from the building that was almost empty. He pulled into it and parked. The car whined as its systems shut down and was still whining when he picked up one of the envelopes from the seat next to him. He counted the wad of bills inside, ticking through them with his thumb. Then he did the same to the cash in the other envelope. It was a lot of money, but a fraction of what he was willing to pay to be free of this.

  He read the note one more time before stuffing it into one of his pockets along with the envelopes and getting out of the car. The early evening air was cool, but heat rose from the asphalt beneath his feet as he retrieved the long duffel bag from the back of his car. He stood there looking down at it, feeling its uneven weight, simultaneously thinking about and trying not to think about its contents for several moments. Then he shut the trunk and crossed the street.

  Perry had always considered places of worship to be a joke, but even he had to admit the Victorian architecture of this one was impressive. Nestled among trees on a lush residential hillside, the building appeared to be an example of nineteenth-century Gothic revival with hints of Spanish and other influences, sporting rugged, dark sandstone, Tudor-style timbering and a five-story clock tower as its centerpiece. Arched windows and a steep roof completed an Old World look.

  A sign identified it as the Church of the Ascension. A white shield with a red cross and blue design in the upper left quadrant. It looked familiar to Perry, but he wasn’t sure of its meaning.

  He followed a circular drive and ascended through stone archways onto a large porch. The main entrance seemed to be to an oversized set of double doors to his right. He wasn’t certain whether to knock. He tested the thumb latch, found it wasn’t locked. That seemed to answer the question. He tugged the door open and entered.

  The interior was dark after the brightness of the late sun. A feeling of foreboding settled over him. He had never gone to church, not once in his life. He’d always assumed it to be nothing more than a way for the masses to fill worthless time, part of the ritual habit of sheep. He was forced to concede that the events of the prior evening might require him to rethink many things, but he didn’t intend for that to be one of them.

  Even so, the hard, sterile stillness of these surroundings was discomfiting. Wooden parquet floor, walls of pressed dark brick, arched redwood ceiling; it all seemed so . . . alien. Like a museum exhibit showcasing life on another planet.

  His instructions were to take a seat in the nave near the altar. He wasn’t certain what a nave was, but as he wandered further into the building, he assumed it was the main area with all the wooden benches. On the way to the aisle he passed an ornate fountain with a white marble statue, a long-haired child with wings. The child was kneeling, holding a cross. He could feel its eyes on his back as he made his way toward the altar.

  There is no God, he reminded himself. Whatever the explanation for what happened last night, it wasn’t that. He muscled his thoughts along
, moving them past the subject, telling himself he’d have plenty of time to figure all that out. Right now, he just needed to get this over with.

  He took a seat in the second row of pews, setting the duffel bag down in the aisle. A large stained-glass window dominated the area beyond the altar. It was almost impossible to take his eyes off it. The liquid colors seemed to blaze like neon. He wasn’t certain what the scene depicted, but the most prominent image had large bat wings. He supposed it was an angel. But it reminded him of what he’d experienced, so despite the attention it demanded he forced himself to lower his head and stare at the floor.

  The day had been the most harrowing he could ever remember. He woke that morning on the sofa in his bedroom coated in blood, his mind still reeling from the prior night. Darin’s dismembered body was in his bed, wrapped in cellophane. The kid’s arm, the tattooed one, had been cut off, bundled in towels, and placed in a duffel bag. The note on the coffee table left explicit instructions on how to dispose of the rest of the body. Instructions for that, and for what to do next. Instructions for his entire day. Instructions he didn’t dare ignore. The final task was to show up here and wait. With the cash. And with the arm.

  That arm sent feelings through him he could only shake off with a shudder. It wasn’t the thought of a severed limb that bothered him. He’d cut off many in his life, some from living subjects who screamed and pleaded as volcanoes of blood erupted from their wounds, but just thinking about this one induced something akin to a panic attack. At times when he’d looked at it, it seemed . . . different. There was something wholly unnatural about it, not just its appearance, but its texture, its musculature, its very presence. Other times, it just looked like an arm.

  But he couldn’t think about it without being reminded of that terrifying figure that came through the mirror, stretching out over him. It was an image that kept rushing into his head faster than he could bail thoughts of it out. He didn’t want to think about that thing, or what it meant; not at all, not ever. That wasn’t part of the Game, that wasn’t part of anything he accepted. There was no Hell in his reality. And he’d always known, always known, that his awareness was supreme, absolute, defining. God Delusions were for those pieces of meat who existed to populate his world, whose purpose was to provide him meaning, to serve as his entertainment.