Unless . . .
Stop thinking about it! It wasn’t Satan! There is no devil! There is no God! There’s only the Game! Stop, stop, stop!
He clenched his eyelids shut like teeth and tapped his forehead against his knuckles. Faces of all the young men he’d murdered were popping into his thoughts like raindrops on a window. Memories once so elusive, so fragile, that he would prompt himself with photos and objects to help him retain them, now were coming unbidden, vivid like never before. Visions of hellfire and damnation took shape alongside them, endless parades of unspeakable horrors, of indescribable tortures presided over by the demonic figure from his mirror. He began to rock back and forth, trying to clear everything away.
There is no God, there is no God, there is no God, there is no God—
His head snapped up. A middle-aged man with dark hair, salting at the temples, was in the aisle looking down at him. Colorful robe, gold trim. A cross hung down the front of his garments on a large chain.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
Perry rubbed his eyes, glanced around the church. He swallowed.
“Interrupt me?”
“Your prayer. It seemed so intense. I’m Father Medina. The rector.”
Perry nodded. He scrambled to reorient himself, to remember his instructions. “I’m, uh, from the Foundation,” he said, following the directions contained in the note.
The priest nodded. He had dark eyes, darker than his hair, and a round face with broad cheekbones. The man’s expression remained pleasant, but even in Perry’s distracted state he thought he detected something beneath it. Something like distaste.
“I assume you have a donation.”
Perry removed one of the envelopes from his pocket and handed it to the man. He could hear the intake of breath, prelude to a sigh, and watched as the priest peeked inside before letting his hand fall to his side, gripping the envelope tightly.
“The church greatly appreciates the Foundation’s generosity. Please remember to check the door.”
Perry stared up at the man, unblinking, but said nothing.
“When you depart, that is. After I close. I assume you want time to reflect in solitude. I normally leave about fifteen minutes from now.”
Perry recalled his instructions. The note said to wait in the nave until after sunset, which was almost an hour away. It hadn’t mentioned anything else.
“Yes,” he said, because it seemed like the thing to say.
The priest tensed his lips into a grim smile, gave a single nod, and began to cross in front of the altar. “Exit through the tower entry here. It will let you out if you press on the bar. The door will lock behind you. Please make sure it’s completely shut.”
“Okay,” Perry said. He watched the priest start to leave again, then blurted out, “How did you know?”
Father Medina paused under an archway and looked back, his brow folding into a quizzical expression. Perry immediately regretted asking, an accidental spillover of all the paranoia and involuntary curiosity bubbling inside him.
“Know?”
“That I would want . . . time alone. To reflect.”
“Because,” the priest said, pushing open a large door, sounding both puzzled and wearied by the question. “That’s what all the others have wanted.”
CHAPTER 8
“OH, FUCK, MAN,” DENNY SAID. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME.”
Hatcher frowned. “Wish it didn’t have to be this way. Don’t really have a choice.”
“How long did you say?”
Denny was leaning over the bar, pretending to wipe it with a small towel. He liked to play bartender sometimes, and this was one of them. But Hatcher knew he never actually tended customers, even when the place was busy and shorthanded. Especially when the place was busy and shorthanded.
“I don’t know. A week or two. Maybe less. Maybe more.”
Hatcher had driven down to the Liar’s Den just before seven to tell Denny he was going to be taking some time off. He figured he owed him that much. He told Vivian to meet him there on the hour, but it was a couple minutes after now.
Denny leaned an elbow on the bar, surveying the few patrons seated at tables.
“I knew something was up when you disappeared last night. You’re the only fucking guy I can count on, you know that? The only guy, and now you’re just walking on me. Leaving me in the lurch.”
That was a hard one to refute. Mostly because it was true. At least technically. He was the only guy Denny could count on, because none of the waitresses were guys. One other bouncer was always late, another was brand-new, and the only male bartenders were part time.
“If I can come back sooner, I will. We’ll watch one of those Mark Specter DVDs you’re always wanting to show me.”
“Yeah, sure.” He flashed a sullen look, then seemed to perk up. “You really gonna come back? You bugged out on me last night.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Something unexpected came up.”
Denny snapped his fingers, then stood up and reached into his pocket.
“You want to see it now?”
“I don’t really have time to watch a DVD, Denny. Not now.”
“No, not that. The gun.”
Hatcher had to think a moment about that. “You mean that little toy thing? Looked like a monopoly piece?”
A grin stretched across Denny’s jowly face and he withdrew his hand from his pocket, pulling out a key chain. It was connected to a miniature holster that looked like brown leather. He flicked open the strap with his thumb, unsnapping it, and removed a miniature firearm. It was the kind of thing Hatcher imagined you’d find in an expensive hobby shop, a place that specialized in tiny replicas. A classic-looking revolver, like a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson with a wooden grip. Denny stuck out his hand, displaying it in his palm.
“What d’ya think?” he said, beaming. “It’s real.”
Hatcher studied the tiny metal object. “What do you mean by ‘real’?”
“It’s a Swiss mini-gun.” Denny leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “They’re illegal here,” he said, popping his eyebrows as if he’d been waiting to say those words all day.
“Looks like you took it off an NRA Barbie.”
“Ha! This ain’t a toy!”
“Wait a sec . . .” Hatcher raised his eyes to look at the man. “You’re saying this is a functional firearm?”
Denny nodded. “I looked it up on the web, thinking it was a joke. But it’s not. It fires a 2.34-caliber bullet. It came with a dozen of them.”
Hatcher wasn’t inclined to believe it, but the more he looked at it, the more details he noticed. Like moving parts. And a serial number. Hatcher couldn’t imagine who would buy such a thing. You’d need a perfect shot from rather close range, and even that was unlikely to do much damage. It would be like firing a pellet gun. Only less accurate.
“I’d be careful trying to fire that thing.”
Denny shrugged. “My brother got a bunch of stuff from a guy who owed him. I was thinking maybe I could use it for self-defense.”
Right, Hatcher thought. He wanted to tell him that at least it was small enough that it wouldn’t hurt when someone shoved it up his ass, but he managed to stop himself.
“I’m guessing these are intended more as conversation pieces. Guns are only good for two things, deterring people or disabling them. That’s unlikely to do either. And didn’t you say something about them being illegal?”
“Yeah—hey!” Denny said, snapping his fingers again. “That reminds me. Someone came by here earlier, looking for you.”
Hatcher didn’t like the sound of that. “Who?”
“Some guy.”
“Cop?”
Denny scratched his beard, eyes reading the air above him. “Cop-ish. But he didn’t flash a badge or nothing. Just asked if you worked here.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you come in sometimes, but you we
ren’t a regular employee. Guess I was being more honest than I realized, huh?”
Hatcher said nothing. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw he had a text.
Running late. Want to meet here?
I’ll be in the lobby in 30.
xxoo
“Hey,” Denny said. “Is this guy looking for you the reason you can’t be around to work?”
“Honestly, I don’t know who that is. And frankly, I can’t deal with whatever he wants right now.”
The folds beneath Denny’s chin jiggled as he shook his jowly head. “I’ll just pretend you’re going on vacation for a week. After that, well, obviously I’m going to need to hire someone else to man the door.”
The words came out like someone auditioning for the part of “Boss.” Hatcher felt for the guy. It was never pleasant to see someone letting themselves get walked all over, even if you were the one doing the walking.
“You do what you have to. No hard feelings.”
Denny pointed the tiny gun at him. “Don’t forget,” he said, grinning. “I’m the one with the gun!”
Hatcher gave him a friendly nod and left. He crossed the street, headed up an inclined drive toward Viv’s rental. There were several cars on the street. Hers was an inconspicuous shade of silver but, being a PT Cruiser, easy to spot.
He was within a few feet of it, thumbing the key fob, when a man called to him from across the street.
“Mr. Hatcher?”
Great. The man jogged toward him. Hatcher didn’t break stride. He reached the car and opened the door with a few yards still separating them.
“Are you Jake Hatcher?”
It was tempting to ignore him. Simply start the car and drive away. Tempting, but not necessarily prudent. Hatcher stood in the wedge of the door with one foot on the running board. He hadn’t made eye contact yet, so it wasn’t too late to keep pretending. He gave serious consideration one more time to getting in and shutting the door, but instead he lifted his gaze as the man reached the curb in front of him, watched him curve around the car toward him.
The first thing Hatcher noticed was that the guy certainly didn’t look like a cop. He was a bit thin, a bit soft, and dressed in a ridiculous bright orange jacket. A bright orange jacket with an even brighter orange hat, like something you’d see on a commercial fisherman who was color-blind. The man slowed down as he approached and audibly tried to catch his breath. Hatcher took him to be in his late twenties or so, on the tall side, and somehow managed to have a skinny body and a fleshy face. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, panting. Not in the best of shape.
Hidden hands were not a good thing. He studied the pockets for signs of a hard edge pressing the fabric. Couldn’t find one. But the right-hand pocket was definitely stuffed with something, even if he was pretty sure it wasn’t a gun.
Of course, he’d just learned that guns could be pretty damn small.
“Are you Jake Hatcher?”
Hatcher stared at him for several beats. His best guess was process server. That would explain the bulging pocket. Sort of. But he had no idea why anyone would want to serve him with anything.
“If I say no, will you leave me alone?”
The man gaped slightly, crinkled his eyes. He sucked in a few more breaths with the same look on his face. Hatcher knew that hesitant look, that hazy way the eyes get. Mr. Orange was trying to figure out what to say.
No, he realized. Not what to say. Rather, what not to say.
“What do you want?” Hatcher asked.
“I just need to talk to you for a few minutes, that’s all.”
“About what?”
Several beats passed in silence.
“Can we go somewhere? Maybe sit down?”
Hatcher gave the man a hard stare. Wasn’t going to happen. Even if he had a few minutes to spare, which he didn’t, the guy was plain creepy. His mouth was shaped in a plastic smile and his demeanor was jittery, eyes staring one moment, darting the next. Like something was distracting him.
“I really don’t have time,” Hatcher said.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I’m going to ask you again. Just who the hell are you?”
The man shrugged. “Someone who’s interested in getting to know you.”
“You’re starting to annoy me. That’s not a good idea at the moment.”
The plastic smile stretched wider. “Should I come back when it is a good idea?”
Hatcher clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to put the jackass in his place. He slid into the driver’s seat and started to shut the door. He had no idea who this guy was, and at the moment he didn’t have it in him to care.
“Deborah told me to say hello.”
The name made him stop. It was obvious he’d dropped that for a reason, and it worked. Orange-guy had his full attention.
Hatcher pushed the door back open and got out. Orange backed away as Hatcher closed in. Movement in the right pocket of the man’s jacket caught his eye.
A piece of Hatcher’s brain registered a threat and he lunged forward, clamping down on the man’s arm with one hand and spinning him around. He knifed the back of his other hand under the man’s chin and drew his head back. Almost instantly, all resistance ceased.
“Who are you?” Hatcher said, yanking the man tight against him, spreading his thumb wide, the triangle of his wrist pressed against the man’s throat. “I won’t ask again.”
“M-Morris,” he said.
“And what do you want, Morris?”
“Just . . . just to talk. That’s all I’m here for. Just to talk to you.”
From somewhere in the fold of the jacket, Hatcher heard a faint scraping, could feel movement in the muscles and tendons of his forearm. He squeezed his fingers into the man’s arm, forcing a gasp.
Before he could ask what the man had in his pocket, a clipped siren blasted a descending note from the street, loud and close.
Hatcher looked over his shoulder to see a black-and-white Crown Vic pulled up near Vivian’s rental at an angle. A voice blared out through a PA system.
“Sir, take your hands off his person and place them on your head. Then lower yourself to your knees. You in the orange coat, back away and do the same.”
Hatcher complied, letting go. But he did it with enough of a tug on the arm and bump with his chest to send the man stumbling a few steps.
The cop got out of the patrol car and stepped forward, one hand resting on the handle of his holstered pistol, the other draped over a tonfa-style baton hanging through a loop in his belt.
“It’s okay, officer,” Morris said, waving a hand like he was cleaning a window. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Is that so?”
The cop turned his attention to Hatcher, who placed his palms on his head and lowered himself to his knees, one at a time. The last thing Hatcher wanted was trouble with the law, especially with everything else he had to worry about. The patrolman was reasonably stout. Short dark hair, black Ray-Bans. Bland facial features, chiseled lines worn into his expression by frowns and sneers. Average height with a cop’s somewhat bloated upper body. Hatcher had seen that build often. Swollen arms and chest and shoulders. Lots of time at the gym, but not the greatest diet. Very little lung work.
“Face the other way.”
Hatcher turned a few degrees, sliding his knees, waited to be patted down. He wondered if the cop was keeping the creep in view. Wondered if he had enough situational awareness to be paying attention to the other guy at all. But the vibe he was getting told him to keep his mouth shut.
The cop said, “You military?”
“Former,” Hatcher said.
“I’m going to need to see some ID.”
Hatcher brought a hand down to remove his wallet and felt his right shoulder ignite and collapse under the pain. A second later, his upper body jerked and fell forward, the harsh chop of a blunt object slamming into the space between his neck and shoulder.
“Did I tell you to move?”
The side of Hatcher’s head pressed into the sidewalk. His right trapezius muscle was in serious agony, stinging jolts of fire shooting up his neck and into his head. Using that arm anytime soon was going to be difficult. He lay there wincing, the ridge of his orbital socket grinding the flesh around it against the rough cement surface.
“Get up. And from now on, you only move when I tell you to, got it?”
Hatcher pushed himself off the pavement. Slowly. The smell and taste of cement lingered. A tendril of bloody saliva stretched from his lip. Second time in the same day he’d been dropped face-first.
“I see rejects like you all the time, losers who think they’re shit-hot badasses, jacking up guys smaller than them. That how you get your kicks? That make you feel like a big man?”
The problem with fighting cops, Hatcher knew, was that you couldn’t win in the end. The worse you beat them, the more they would send after you. Lot of wannabe tough guys were attracted to the badge, and that was why—to be able to act tough without necessarily being tough. He remembered some of the kids from high school who wanted to join the force, had seen the same kind in the MPs. Lot of low achievers with high opinions of themselves. Not all cops were like that, but enough to constitute a trend as far as he was concerned. They were a lot like some of the guys he’d met in prison. Mirror images, in many ways.
Of course, tossing them off a tall building wasn’t advisable, either. And he’d gotten away with doing just that to one of them. So far.
Back on his knees, Hatcher put his left hand to the top of his head. His right hung limp, slightly crooked at the elbow, pressed across his abdomen. He couldn’t get it to cooperate yet.
“Yeah,” the cop continued. “Seen plenty like you. What were you? A ranger or something? That supposed to impress people?”
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