The hidden favorites reveal themselves to those who get around on foot, and to be honest, the bustling neighborhood is one of the most walkable areas of Los Angeles. It also gave me more time to mull over this current case. Who was Cleo Dix? Barista by day, DJ by night, and churchgoer on Sundays who spent part of her free time working with those less fortunate. According to Father Jimenez, she was spiritual, artistic, and deeply religious, which I guess was a prerequisite to anyone performing miracles.
I didn’t want to let Jimenez’s opinion cloud my judgement. He clearly liked the young woman and felt protective of her. I would soon meet Cleo and be able to draw my own conclusions.
About twenty-five minutes later, I arrived at Cafe Minotti. My eyes searched for both Cleo and their infamous cronut. A small line snaked around the glass counter filled with pastries, and it took me a beat to spot Cleo. A gray beanie covered her long dreads, her figure obscured by a brown apron—a very different look from the one she’d had in the video from Club Link.
My first impression was a positive one. Cleo appeared to be smart, friendly, and personable. She was about to fill out the next order when her smile vanished, and fear crept into her gaze.
Triggering this reaction was the haggard man who leaned over the counter. Something about this guy seemed a tad off even from where I was standing. As the man’s bony fingers closed around Cleo’s wrist, I burst into action.
I cut the line, which earned me my fair share of peeved looks from the other caffeine and sugar junkies. I was almost upon the man when the Ouroboros tattoo on my shoulder ignited with agony, a telltale indicator that a supernatural force was in play here.
Okay, maybe this was my kind of case after all.
“Make me see again,” the man holding her wrist said.
Drawing closer, I caught a better look at the stranger, and noticed the cloudy eyes which blankly pointed into nothingness. But as I watched, the man’s milky eyes cleared, a pair of green pupils morphing from the white sclera.
Pain flared in my tattoo. It sure as hell looked like Cleo was performing another miracle, but the Ouroboros reacted to dark magic and demonic energy. Whatever was happening here, darkness fueled it.
Crying out with joy, the haggard man let go of Cleo’s wrist. The young woman recoiled with a gasp. For a second, she looked like she was waking from a trance or a bad dream.
The previously blind man turned toward me, his gaunt face lighting up with unbridled happiness. Suddenly he didn’t look all that scary anymore. He was just a guy who couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. After being trapped in the dark for who knows how long, he was finally was able see the world.
My attention shifted toward Cleo, who stared at the man with the restored vision as if he was death incarnate. Then I realized she was actually looking past him, her gaze fixed on the far corner of the cafe.
A quick glance revealed there was no one in that part of the coffee shop—at least no one visible to my senses.
I knew all too well that appearances could be deceiving.
A beat later, Cleo tore away from the cash register, bumped into a second barista right behind her and knocked a blended coffee beverage topped with a mountain of whipped cream out of the woman’s hand.
The barista let out a sharp curse as Cleo surged past the surprised crowd and barreled out of the cafe, almost as if the forces of Hell themselves were hot on her tail.
A second later, I was rushing after her.
I’m in good shape, but I didn’t want to draw undue attention to myself. A crying woman running down the street was disconcerting enough without some dude chasing after her at full bore. Instead, I walked down the sidewalk at a fast clip, doing my best not to lose sight of the miracle worker.
About five minutes later, Cleo slowed down, exhaustion getting the better of her. As in the videos from the soup kitchen and the club, she didn’t look like some joyous miracle worker who believed that God was working through her. To my eyes, she appeared both terrified and tortured by abilities that defied her comprehension.
I felt sorry for her. And a little afraid.
As Cleo dipped into a nearby park, I followed suit. She’d sought refuge on a well-worn bench. The green island felt like a sanctuary of sorts, and I could see her face relaxing slightly — poor girl.
Whatever was happening to her, it was beyond her control and understanding. She hadn’t chosen the role of miracle worker, that much was for sure. I felt a pang of guilt at assuming she was a con woman trying to become the next viral sensation.
I gingerly approached Cleo, worried that the presence of a stranger might alarm her. I decided to announce my presence before she spotted me and bolted again.
“Excuse me, miss, are you alright?”
Cleo met my gaze; her eyes streaked with tears. I felt my heart going out to her. She blinked at me, almost as if she was trying to decide if I was another weirdo in need of a miracle.
“My name is Simon Kane. I’m a friend of Father Jimenez.”
I could feel Cleo lowering her guard at the mention of the priest. Encouraged by this, I pressed on.
“Father Jimenez knows what you’ve been going through, and he thinks I can help.”
Cleo’s brows furrowed, probably wondering how this guy in the expensive skinny suit could be of any help to her.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
An obvious lie. I could feel her gaze growing distant again. I was losing her.
“Listen, Cleo, I investigate… unusual phenomena.”
She stared at me with big eyes. “You don’t look like someone who works for the church.”
“I don’t. I mostly help the police with strange, inexplicable crimes.”
I approached the bench where she was seated, making sure she could see my hands at all times. Cleo didn’t trust me, but at least she wasn’t running away from me.
“Listen, I know you’re going through something that most people couldn’t even imagine…”
“Are you saying you know what’s happening to me?’
I shook my head, figuring it was best to be as honest as possible about this.
“I’m afraid I don’t. At least not yet. But that’s why I’m here. Father Jimenez sent me because he thinks I’m the best person to help. Perhaps if we go over the last few days, retrace how this all started, the pieces might come together.”
Cleo considered my words a beat, then shook her head.
“No, you won’t be able to solve this mystery, Kane. Unlike your father, you lack the proper faith.”
A chill raced up my spine. Cleo’s voice had deepened, taking on a menacing, almost masculine tone.
That was upsetting for multiple reasons.
My hand crept toward my athame out of instinct, but I didn’t want to hurt the young woman seated before me.
And then an all-too-human man stepped in front of me, chest out, eyes blazing.
“Back the fuck off, asshole!” the newcomer shouted at me. A square-jawed, tanned face framed by long blonde hair. Handsome in a surfer dude kind of way. The look in his eyes told me he wouldn’t hesitate to punch me in the face if I took one step closer to Cleo.
I vaguely recalled seeing this fellow back at Cafe Minotti, but he’d been wearing his brown apron at the time. From the way he protectively shielded Cleo, I guessed they were dating or at least headed that way.
I had no intention of getting into some stupid fight with her knight in shining armor, so I took a step back, hoping it would prove that I bore no ill intentions toward Cleo. Unfortunately, it seemed to embolden the man.
“Get the hell out of here! The lady doesn’t want to talk to you!”
I tried to make eye contact with Cleo, hoped she might tell this meathead to take things down a notch, but she remained quiet, her eyes narrowed into calculating slits.
As I took another step back, a cold smile stole across her face. It didn’t belong there.
Something alien and evil lived in that unflinching gaze. Something
that wasn’t human.
And then her expression reverted to normal, and Cleo once again looked like the scared young woman that she was.
“What did you do to her back in the coffee house?” the surfer asked me, eyes blazing.
His attention turned to Cleo, and his tough-guy veneer softened. “Baby, are you okay? Is this asshole bothering you?”
I made a last-ditch attempt to reach the woman. “Cleo, I know this must be like nothing you’ve ever faced before, but you can talk to me.”
Her beau shot me a hard stare. “What the fuck are you yabbering about, weirdo? Who the hell are you?”
“Knock it off, asshole. I’m here to help.” The edge in my voice gave surfer boy pause. “Cleo’s friend—a priest who is very concerned about what is happening to your girlfriend—sent me here to talk to her.”
I figured if I stressed the girlfriend part, the kid wouldn’t think I was some perv hitting on Cleo. Thank God I didn’t wear a trench coat, or he might think I was a flasher.
Cleo remained mum, having once again retreated to some distant place deep inside herself. I hated to see anyone lost like this, unable to understand or fight back against the supernatural forces that had invaded their lives, but at least she was back to being herself and not the puppet of that dark presence.
Surfer boy glared at me. “See, she has nothing to say to you. So beat it!”
I held the man’s gaze and did my best to resist the impulse to knock him on his ass. I reminded myself that I was a stranger here and that, to his eyes, I was the guy responsible for his girlfriend’s troubled state. This dude had probably missed the whole exchange between Cleo and the blind man. Which naturally made the guy who chased her out of the café look pretty darn suspicious.
I took a deep breath and opted for a strategic retreat. At least for now.
As I backed off, the kid continued to glare at me but refrained from hurtling more insults in my direction. I guess he was coming down from his adrenaline high and realized he had no appetite for an actual physical altercation.
As I left the park, my mind turned back to Cleo’s momentary hate-filled expression. I was becoming more and more convinced that God had nothing to do with these so-called miracles—and that the young woman at the center of this mystery was in terrible danger.
Chapter Six
Officers Navarro and Mikelson had just started their night patrol when the call came in. Domestic Disturbance in progress, the dispatcher informed them in a dispassionate voice.
A neighbor had reported loud shouting and banging noises and feared that the fight between the couple next door was turning violent. The couple in question, Romeo Garcia and Angelica Cortez, had a well-documented history of volatile behavior.
Officer Navaro wondered why people moved in with each other when they weren’t compatible. Love worked in mysterious ways, and the heart wants what the heart wants, logic and reason be damned. He was no stranger when it came to fiery relationships, but he was smart enough not to share a living space with any lady he wouldn’t feel comfortable introducing to his mother.
Mikelson turned on the siren and floored the gas. Ten minutes later, they were making their way toward the third floor of a rundown Inglewood tenement building, scanning the numbers for the unit in question.
The concerned neighbor who made the 911 call greeted them in the dank hallway, his face tight with an expression that bordered on dread. The middle-aged Asian man haltingly explained that the screaming had gotten much worse since he called only to die down in the last minutes.
Judging by the man’s disturbed expression, he didn’t believe the couple had made up during that time. The last few screams had been worse.
“It sounded like someone was being murdered in there,” he explained, wringing his hands. The man’s gaze kept darting to the door across the hall.
Navarro’s fingers tightened around the butt of his service revolver as he advanced toward the apartment. He nodded at his partner and started pounding his fist against the door.
“Police. Open up!”
Navaro wasn’t surprised when no one answered. He swapped a glance with his partner, who nodded at him in return.
Navarro drew his pistol, took a deep breath, and then kicked the door open. The thin wood gave way under the impact and swung open with a loud creak.
Guard up, fingers tight on his weapon, Navarro edged into the shabby apartment. The first thing he noticed was the blood spatter on the white wall. It almost looked like graffiti. Then he saw the dead woman, lifeless eyes staring into space, a knife sticking up from her blood-drenched chest.
They were too late. Damn it, he hated this kind of call. Angelica Cortez was beyond all help now, and the important thing was to find her killer before anyone else got hurt.
He took a tentative step, pistol leveled, ready, and… froze. A figure lurked in a dark corner of the apartment, his ashen features turned ghostlike by the milky light seeping in through the drawn blinds.
Navarro’s fingers whitened on the trigger as haunted, bloodshot eyes stared back at him. He had the strangest sensation that he’d seen this man before somewhere.
“The bitch asked for it,” the man—presumably Romeo Garcia—said. “She just wouldn’t shut up. Is it too much to ask for her to keep her mouth shut for once? Doesn’t a man deserver a little bit of peace and quiet?”
“Put the gun down!” Navarro barked, all business.
Undeterred, the killer continued, “I’d ask her again and again, please, be quiet, but she just wouldn’t listen…”
“I said, put the fucking gun down!” Navarro’s voice shook with adrenaline.
The killer’s distant gaze cleared as he focused on the cops.
“Drop the gun. I will not say it again.”
Romeo Garcia’s mouth split into a grin as he pointed his gun at his throat and, without hesitation, squeezed the trigger.
The wall behind him bloomed red, and the man collapsed.
Heart hammering in his chest, Navarro stared at the wide-open dead eyes and the second mouth in the man’s throat, which was oozing red.
As he called it in, Navarro realized why the dead murderer looked so familiar to him. His first impression had been on the money. He’d seen this guy before. The other day, a cop buddy of his had answered the call from a nearby night club. Some idiot had overdosed on the dance floor. By the time the police arrived, the man had miraculously recovered. The video of the incident had been trending ever since. Some were even calling the man’s recovery a miracle.
Well, the grim reaper didn’t enjoy taking no for an answer. Garcia wouldn’t be rising from the dead a second time.
Chapter Seven
Gabriella Morales was living her dream. She had arrived in California six years ago from El Salvador. After a brief stint as a dishwasher, a backbreaking gig that was not one of her favorite memories, she’d started cleaning apartments. Then, as soon as Gabriella's English had improved enough, she’d put out the word that she would prefer to work as a nanny. She loved kids with all her heart and found babysitting to be far more rewarding than scrubbing down people’s toilets and kitchen floors. Two years after leaving her hometown for the United States, she was working as a nanny for three different families.
Gabriella found the work to be fun and rewarding. But sometimes the responsibility was scary. Like now. She was doing her best not to lose sight of seven-year-old Karen her brother Rob, age nine, while they went hog wild on the playground.
She fixed her gaze on Roberto while the little bundle of energy attacked the playground’s jungle gym as if he was auditioning for a role on American Ninja Warrior. Her heart skipped a beat more than once as he swung wildly on ropes and launched himself headfirst down a slide. As he landed in the sandbox in a cloud of dust, Gabriella bit her lips to stop herself from calling out to him. Roberto let out a loud shriek and giggle, obviously delighted despite his nanny’s terror.
Dios mio, the kid would be the death of her. She ador
ed the little daredevil, but he sure was a handful and then some.
Finally, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Roberto, be careful, you’ll get your pants dirty.”
Rob flashed her a wild smile, followed by a thumbs-up sign. Shrieking with boyish delight, the little travieso climbed the jungle gym’s wooden ladder, determined to get into more mischief.
Gabriella sighed, resigned to earn a few more gray hairs before the day was over. At least his little sister was no trouble.
As little Roberto’s joyful shouts continued, Gabriella cast her gaze over the rest of the playground. She'd been so distracted by the little boy’s antics that she’d lost sight of Karen. Younger by two years, Roberto’s sister could not have been more different. Pretty in an almost ethereal way, she preferred to bury her face in a book than let loose on the playground. Where Roberto was loud and brash, Karen was quiet and shy. But once you earned the little girl’s trust, she was all heart. The other day, she’d drawn her nanny a birthday card that had nearly brought tears to Gabriella’s eyes.
As Gabriella’s gaze combed the playground, she expected to find Karen near the swings perhaps or in the sandbox, off by herself. She didn’t make friends as quickly as Rob, and this worried Gabriella a little. My best friends all live in books, she’d declared the other day, and it had broken Gabriella’s heart. She’d decided then and there to attempt to gently coax Karen out of her social bubble.
So far, all her attempts to get Karen to engage with other kids had been more miss than hit, but she wasn’t one to give up so easily. She hadn't braved coyotes, miles of desert, and the Rio Grande by taking no for an answer. If Gabriella spotted the little girl alone this afternoon, she’d take it upon herself to introduce her to the other girls running around the playground. Karen might be mad at her for thrusting her into a social situation she’d rather avoid, but she would thank her in the long run.
The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss Page 4