“The key is,” I told West as we covered the basement and then the stairwell leading up to freedom with acetone, “I wait to throw the torch down the stairs until you throw your canisters—you need to toss them to either side of the bar. Do not block the front door—we make our run for that.”
West and I had manufactured some crude Molotov cocktails out of two half-emptied cans of gasoline, stuffed with rags.
“You’re going to want to get clear of those cans as soon as they’re lit,” I said. We were putting ourselves at as much risk as our captors, but at this point there wasn’t much choice.
“Understood,” Father West said. “But you’re going to have to toss one of them yourself. My arm is totally useless.”
“Give it to me,” I said. “You don’t wait for me—as soon as you throw yours, run for the front door.”
“Agreed,” he said, nervously.
“See you on the other side,” I told him, and we ignited our escape plan.
West tossed his gas can as far as he could, and I threw the other in an opposing arc. They exploded almost simultaneously in an aurora of bright, spattering flame, immediately swallowing the two halves of Sweet Potatoes in an inferno.
Father West took off for the door and I lit my fuse. I tossed the fiery rag to the bottom of the stairs and ran. Flames exploded from the stairwell in a magnificent plume, searing the back of my clothes and catching my jacket on fire. As I ran, I tried to pull it off—then I heard the voices.
And the gunfire.
I had to hand it to Calypso’s men. The building was already a five-alarm fire, but these bad-ass dudes were firing at us as they went up in smoke.
We burst through the front doors and into the cool night. There was already a large group of downtowners gathering on the far curb. I got my burning coat off and tossed it, and amidst the questioning crowd, we blended in and disappeared.
Sweet Potatoes burned to the ground.
Nothing left.
We heard that three men died in the fire, but it would be a while before dental records could produce positive identifications. I could only hope that fat Calypso was one of the fatalities, or that at least he’d gotten some of the worst of it.
Cole was doing much better and had been moved to the general ward. I called Pete Rawlins and asked for yet another favor. Since my son was stable, and I was more unsure than ever who I could or couldn’t trust, I convinced Pete to use his rig to transport Cole to a small hospital in Fort Collins—one hundred miles north of Denver.
I had a friend on the force up there who I knew would arrange for a guard. I couldn’t possibly know how far this terror had spread, but I wasn’t going to risk my only son staying in the city where the worst of it was going down.
Pete moved Cole northward and managed to bury the paperwork at both hospitals.
I knew this would do little than buy me time to think and plan.
“I can get us guns,” I said. “And probably some loyal friends to help. But what good will it do?”
“It will help, but we need the Crucifix,” West said.
“When I…killed Greer. I saw the beast inside her. It was like a ghost, and then it imploded.”
“The corporeal body is stronger—much stronger—and it can heal from non-fatal wounds. Much quicker than normal, in fact. But a fatal shot will kill the body. However, unless put down with the Crucifix, the beast inside will escape.”
“Escape?”
“Return to Samhain. Make him stronger, rather than weaker. With every demon we destroy, it weakens Samhain tenfold.”
“Then we need to get that weapon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EVEN AS a detective, walking away with case evidence would be extremely challenging. Being on suspension made the feat downright impossible. But we needed the Crucifix of Ardincaple.
If I was being honest with myself? The fact that I was risking my career to retrieve an ancient artifact in the hope that it would help me kill hoards of the possessed still gave me pause.
Actually it made me feel certifiable.
But I’d seen Greer—witnessed the depths of the horror that was contained within her. I’d felt the strength she commanded and I’d also seen the evil leave her after using the weapon.
Of course that still didn’t mean I was sane. After all, insanity by definition can—and usually does—provide its victim with all manner of justification for what it is they do.
But at this point, I really didn’t feel I had much choice. If I was loony, they’d catch me quick enough. And I wouldn’t fight them. Until that moment, however, I planned to embrace my ancestry and try to go out and make a difference. After all, even as a cop, that’s what I swore to do.
Serve and protect.
The call from Special Agent Amanda Byrne was not part of my original plan.
“Macaulay,” I said into the cell.
“Bobby, this is Amanda.”
“Wow, Agent Byrne. It’s been a while.”
“I’m sorry, Bobby. After the, uh, you know. Death of your girlfriend…”
“Greer,” I said. “Her name was Greer Foster.”
“I know. I know her name, Bobby. I want to talk with you.”
“Agent Byrne…”
“Amanda.”
“Amanda, I’m a little busy.”
“That’s what I want to talk about. I know what you’re planning to do.”
We met at a café near downtown.
“I’ve missed you,” she said in a profoundly un-federal agent type way.
“It’s been a strange few weeks for me, Amanda. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“I can. But I also feel like I know what you’re about.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re too much like me. When there’s unsettled business that needs settling, that is.”
I had to give her credit.
“Well, whatever truth there might be in that professional assessment, I can assure you that you’d be doing yourself a favor to get as far from me as possible.”
“I disagree,” she said.
“You disagree?”
“I want to help.”
“And I thought I was crazy. That’s the last thing you want to be doing right now. Trust me. Think of your career—better yet, imagine what it would feel like to have it ending.”
“There are things in life—things in this world—more important than any fucking career.”
“And how is it you’ve come to the conclusion that this is one of those things?” I said.
“I read the reports, Bobby.”
“You don’t know as much as you think.”
“I know nearly as much as you. I thought when you and Father West confided in me that there was a level of trust there.”
“Trusting someone is different than allowing their descent into madness with you,” I said.
“Like I said, we’re alike, you and me. We don’t accept these things easily. Maybe no one does. But when we realize there’s only one way to fight through, that’s what we do. We fight.”
“This doesn’t involve you,” I told her.
“The day you bedded me you involved me.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I said.
“So it was more. That makes an even better point.”
“Fine,” I said.
“I’m with you.”
“I told you okay,” I said.
“So now, I assume, we have to go after it,” she said.
“The murder weapon, you mean.”
“You’re not going down for murder,” she said.
“That’s your take. But you just said, you’ve got a reason to believe in me.”
“There’s nowhere near enough evidence to support a charge like that against a cop.”
“We’ve got bigger things to worry about at this point,” I said.
“Your story will stand,” Byrne said, and put her hand on my arm.
“That’s your professional or persona
l opinion?”
“Both.”
“I’d sure like to have a career when this is over. For you and for me,” I said.
“First things first,” she said.
“We’re going to have to break into the evidence locker to get it back, you know,” I told her.
“Yes.”
“Again, that kind of activity tends to be very risky in the realm of career moves.”
“I’m aware,” she said flatly.
“And why exactly do you want to put your neck on the line for me—better yet, for this mission of professional suicide?”
“I have my reasons,” she said.
“Name one.”
“I know more about Calypso than I’ve told you.”
“Come again?”
“We’ve been watching the man for three years. Recording conversations. He doesn’t give up much, but there have been moments.”
“Are you saying that day—going to talk to the seer—that you had an inkling of what the Obeah really are?”
“More than an inkling,” she said.
“Yet you played it off.”
“We’d just met. Besides, it’s unofficial. Written off as supernatural bullshit by the bureau.”
“And you?”
“Well, until recently, I guess I pretty much considered it a crock of shit, too.”
“But now we are all believers, right?” I said.
“Like I said, this kind of thing doesn’t settle with either one of us very easily.”
“But when it does…”
“It settles hard,” she said.
I wondered if we were still talking about the supernatural bullshit.
“You want to know why I want this son of a bitch so badly?” I said.
“I can think of a hundred reasons.”
“The night I killed that thing—the thing that pretended to be Greer—you know what it said to me?”
Byrne shook her head. None of that was in the report.
“That there essentially was no Greer. That I’d been in love with a fucking monster for five years.”
“Oh my God.”
The plan to retrieve the crucifix was pretty simple. The evidence locker is in the basement of the building and it’s manned by Sergeant Steve Hockley, an old-timer who likes to chew the rag almost as much as he looks forward to his nearing retirement. There was a better than decent chance Hockley didn’t know anything about my case, particularly that I was suspended.
He tended to be a bit of a one-track guy.
“Sergeant,” I said, waving big as I approached his window.
“Detective Macaulay,” he said, smiling wide. “What brings you down here to this neck o’ the woods? I heard you were taking some time.”
Strike one.
“Well, I am. But I stopped by to pick up a few things—getting ready to take my boy camping—and I remembered you are into that kind of activity. So I thought I would come down and pick your brain for a couple of good locations.”
“Sure, sure,” he said. “Absolutely. Tent, trailer, or big ‘un?”
“I think tent this time,” I said.
“Well that opens up the options,” he said.
Just then, the building fire alarm sounded.
“Holy shit!” Hockley yelled.
“Whoops, we better get moving,” I said.
“Shit, I gotta lock up,” he said. “And this dad gum hip.”
Hockley’s assignment in Evidence was due as much to his debilitating arthritis as it had to do with his nearing retirement age.
“Tell me what to do,” I said. “I’ll lock it up and find you with the key.”
“That would be mighty good of you, Detective. Just close the back cage—here’re the keys—double check the lockers, make sure none of them are open. And lock this main door when you exit. I’ll get a head start and meet you in the parking lot with the rest of the squad.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
“You think the fire’s real?”
“Hope not,” I said, running to the rear of the evidence room.
I found the crucifix and put it in a gym bag I had stashed around the corner. I locked up the evidence room, put on a cap and sunglasses, and left through a rear emergency exit. Agent Byrne was waiting for me at the top of the stairs in the alleyway. I passed her the keys and disappeared into the crowd.
Two minutes later Amanda Byrne found Sergeant Steve Hockley and returned the keys, along with an apology from me.
We’d have to discuss the campsites at another time.
“This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”
~D.H. Lawrence
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE CALL to my cell showed up as “blocked”.
“Detective,” a familiar voice said.
It was Calypso.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t find him?” he said.
My stomach dropped. At this point I had to concede it was probably another question to which I already knew the unwelcome answer.
“You have him?” I said.
“Your son,” Calypso confirmed. “It wasn’t all that difficult, Detective.”
“You all just don’t know when to call things equal, do you?”
“Equal?” he said. “You burned my business. Killed three of my men.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I still owe you a world of hurt.”
“There’s a cabin up near Grand Lake, Detective. Deep in the woods. You check your email; you’ll find GPS coordinates. Show up with anything resembling a cavalry and in your worst nightmare you won’t be able to imagine what your boy looks like the next time you see him.”
If we’re lucky, at some point in our lives we find something worth fighting for. I say “lucky” because I think most of us never do find such a thing, or when we do, we’re afraid to take the risk—we don’t step outside the security of the rut in which we’ve walked for so many years.
The worst luck, however, is to be forced into such a game. The stakes are higher, and it’s so much more difficult to keep your wits about you—so difficult, when to lose control means to lose everything.
“You let him go,” I said. “You take him back where you found him—you leave my son out of this—and I promise you: I’ll come. Just me.”
“That’s not going to happen, Detective, and you know it.”
“Then with God as my witness, you won’t have to worry about any cavalry. Because Hell is coming with me.”
There was a pause on the line.
Then, just before Calypso disconnected:
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Hell is already here.”
We cannot change the events that have passed, and it’s difficult to know what the future holds—but I’ve always cleaved to the notion that we and we alone are in control of our destinies. I do believe in God, but I think that free will is a gift, and it’s ours to do with as we choose.
The part about our destinies not being preordained may or may not be true, but I was about to put my faith in God’s gift of free will to the test.
I spent eight years in the Marine Corps. I didn’t see battle, but I learned how to form bonds with the men who would serve with me if I did. And those bonds had lasted throughout the years. I made three phone calls after retrieving the Crucifix of Ardincaple.
The first was to Johnny P. Knoblauch.
“Block,” I said into the cell phone.
“Shit,” Block said. “What the hell are you up to, Mac?”
Block was the kind of guy you called when you needed someone to say “yes” without question. Imagine Rand
all “Tex” Cobb in Raising Arizona. A man who never maintained enough ties that he couldn’t stare down whatever was after him and disappear around the nearest corner.
Or jump right into the middle of a firefight.
Whatever the situation demanded.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“What kind of favor?”
“The might not come out of it alive kind,” I said, hoping my comrade had not found too much religion since we last spoke.
“You know damn well that’s the only fucking kind,” he said.
My second call was to Gunny McBride. By the time a man makes Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, he’s pretty much declared that risks, jags in the forward path, unforeseen riptides in the oceans of his life—all matter of change—are welcome. As long as the cause is genuine.
When Gunny got the call from me, he happened to be three weeks from retirement and still, I would bet a year’s paycheck, the toughest bastard left in the Corps.
“Macaulay,” Gunny said. “I’m going to give us both the respect of assuming you wouldn’t waste my time with a phone call unless it was of profound import.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“You still in Denver?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll let you know when to pick me up,” he said, and hung up the phone.
Finally I called one of my oldest friends, Mike Shay. Like me, Mike chose not to make the Marine Corps a career. He’d settled down in Southern California and was making a good living doing security consulting for several large firms in the Los Angeles and San Diego areas.
I hesitated to reach out to Shay. He was married. He had more to lose than the other two. But for me to have not reached out—that would have been the unforgivable act.
It is said a true friend you can call from anywhere, at any time, for any reason—that while friends will always find a place for you on the calendar, a true friend never looks.
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