"We will tell you. Not just me." Faith returned his look with a little more confidence. At least she was admitting there was something there.
"Okay. Just as long as we have an understanding. No more secrets. Once this whatever this is is out in the open, keep square with me and we will get along fine." Faith nodded and reached for her fork.
"This is good," she mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
"Told you. Damned good pie." Sam finished his slice. "You asked me my take on the guy, so what’s yours?"
"I think he was telling the truth," she mumbled between bites. "Whoever this guy was, he had Peters rattled enough to throw away everything. That watch thing would have unnerved anybody, to be honest."
"Yeah, that was weird. Think he was someone on the hospital staff? 'May have noticed his watch had stopped and used it against him?"
"Could be." Faith looked deep in thought again.
"Don't. Don't start the thinking without talking again." Sam met his eyes with hers to bring her out of it, but he knew this was going to be a difficult habit for her to break.
"I didn't mean to," she said, laying her fork in her empty saucer. "How do you think he is doing it? The comas?"
"Don't know," answered Sam, frowning a little. "Maybe poison of some kind? Then slipping in the antidote when no one is looking? However, it's done, I doubt that this soul stuff is legit."
"What if it is?" Sullivan sounded childlike.
She couldn’t be serious, Sam thought.
"You’re kidding, right? Soul stealing? Come on."
"Of course. Crazy, right?" Faith decided to let it drop for now. They sat in silence for several long moments. "Why did you leave New York?"
"Hmm? Oh, I don't know. Needed a change of scenery, I guess."
"No, I don't think so."
"You don't?"
"No," she continued, but her tone had stayed soft and friendly. That was a start. "When you are ready to tell me, I will listen. Judging isn't my job." Sam thought about this for a moment and nodded. She was trying to make this work and that was an even better start.
"Okay, now. That accent of yours..."
"What about my accent?" she asked playfully.
"It's not quite anything I have ever heard."
"Well, I am unique," she laughed, flipping her curls from her shoulders.
"I have to agree with that. And that red hair of yours explains your temper." Sam chuckled.
"Oh, you’re asking for it, 'ren't ya? Well, the facts remain. My da' was from Ireland and my mom was from Scotland. Couldn't get out of the red locks if I tried." Sam and Faith sat and talked for several more minutes when Sam's cell rang.
"Wesson," he answered. "Yeah, on our way." Sam stood up and threw a five on the table.
"What's up?" Faith asked as she followed him out the door.
"That was Smitty. Parsons just took a dive from his building."
Twilight was falling fast as Sam and Faith arrived. Squad cars and an ambulance lit up the evening with their barrage of reds and blues. Patrolmen were cordoning off the area with police tape to keep the curious from getting too close. Sam was furious. He should have seen this coming. Peters jumping so soon after their visit couldn’t have been a coincidence. He had panicked.
They flashed their badges and were let through the police line where Chief Shafer was waiting near the corpse. A C.S.I. photographer was busy taking shots from all angles. Peters had landed on his back, flat on the sidewalk. His body was twisted unnaturally and his eyes stared into nothingness.
"I take it that he wasn't like this when you left him?" Chief Shafer barked. This was his best lead and it lay in a bloody heap at his feet.
"He was fine when we left, chief. A bit rattled but fine," Sam answered sullenly.
"He was fine? This is not fine, Wesson." Shafer growled.
"He talked to us, at least," explained Sullivan. "We learned quite a bit, actually."
"I want a report on my desk first thing," he demanded. "Fuck that. You both will bring your reports to me personally tomorrow in my office. First thing." Shafer stormed off toward his car without looking at them again.
8
S am Wesson closed the door to his room at the Colonial Bed & Breakfast by 1:30 that next morning. Sam was wrong. It was not the circuses that stayed the same, it was the damned paperwork. Kicking off his shoes and tossing his trench coat over a chair, Sam collapsed on the bed. This wasn’t his first day without stopping, and it wouldn’t be his last. He was the job, cut and dried. Every bone in his body ached. He rolled over on his back and punched the pillow into a more comfortable position.
Parsons yesterday, Peters today. Damn. His first week in Boston was turning into a bloody nightmare. Faith was shaken up by the suicide. She had hoped that she had brought the guy some comfort. Maybe she did. Maybe he needed to be reminded of what was at stake and decided to finalize the deal. No way he would cause his wife to go into a coma relapse, as the perp had threatened, if Peters was dead.
Sam was too wound up to go to sleep, although he knew that he should. He was expected in Shafer's office at six. Still, he reached over and picked up the remote control. He would watch an old sitcom or something until he fell asleep. Seemed the only cure after a day like today. Flicking through the channels, he couldn’t find anything worth watching and he was damned if he would be sleeping to the sound of an infomercial. He turned it and the bedside lamp off. Might as well give in. The sound of his cell ringing changed that idea, however.
"Wesson."
"Having fun yet?" Asked the deep, unfamiliar baritone on the other end.
"Who is this?" Sam sat up, the cackles on the back of his neck rose.
"Oh, you know, Detective. Don't you?" The man laughed maliciously.
"You son of a bitch. How did you get this number?"
"That doesn't matter now, does it? Point is that I have your number. And now we can chat." Sam decided to keep him on the line long enough for a trace. He stepped over to the phone on his bedside table and picked up the receiver. It was dead. "Oh, very clever, my boy. Of course, I wanted this to be between you and me, I hope you don't mind." The man's voice raked across Sam's spine. He was enjoying toying with the detective.
And he was watching him.
"What do you want?"
"Oh, nothing really," the man drawled. "What do any of us want? It is an enigma that plagues us all."
"I don't have time for riddles." Sam's hand rested on the 9mm still fastened in his holster. Not practical in this case, but comforting.
"Oh, you'll make time for me, Sammy-boy. You see, I have become interested in you. You are quite the character. You and that firecracker of a partner you tote around."
"Leave her out of this." Sam’s blood boiled.
"Oh, don't worry, son. I have no intentions of hurting your pet. You are my focus at the moment."
"So, what? You going to make me take a nap like you did the others?" Atta-boy, Sam. Be the investigator. Find out what makes this guy tick.
"I wouldn't dream of it. You see, you are the first thing in centuries that might be a worthy adversary. Now, why would I want to change that?"
"Centuries? You're trying to tell me you have been around for centuries?" It was more of a statement than a question. Sam knew he was nuts, but he was not about to tell a psychopath that he was a few nuts short of a candy bar.
"Of course. If we are to become friends, we should know all about each other, shouldn't we?" A light, sarcastic chuckle hissed through the ear-piece.
"Yeah, sure, but you said I was an adversary, now you say a friend. Can't be both." Sam had to keep him going. He had to slip up sooner or later.
"No, you didn't listen to me. I said you might be a worthy adversary. I never said you were. Time will tell." The line went dead. Sam hesitated. What the fuck just happened? He quickly dialed the station.
"Boston PD."
"This is Detective Sam Wesson. I need a trace put on my cell right now. I want the mother f
ucker that just called me nailed to a wall when I get there." Sam already had his shoes back on and was struggling into his trench when the door to his room closed behind him.
Sam pushed his way through the glass front doors of Boston Police Department like a bear after his prey. Inquisitive eyes followed him to the sergeant's desk but no one stopped him or said good morning. He radiated a fury that none of them wanted to tap into at this hour of the night. He slammed his palms on the raised desk and locked eyes with the same broad-shouldered officer that had covered for Macinah the day before.
"I am Detective Sam Wesson. I called for a trace. Who do I talk to?" The unfamiliarity of the precinct and staff was seriously putting a damper on his motivations. but he had to cut the red tape at the base.
"In the chief's office," the desk sergeant thumbed toward the back of the squad room.
"What's the chief doing here?" Sam asked, and the officer shrugged. Sam made a bee-line across the room to Shafer's door and barged in. The chief was slumped in his chair, and across from him was a horrified looking Faith.
"What's going on here?" Sam demanded. This had the smell of something sour. The sight of the two conspirators, which he was certain they were, had almost made him forget the reason he had come to the station in the first place. He looked from one to the other, but he got nothing. "Fine. You want your secrets; you can have them. I don't give a big rat's ass. I am here because I requested a trace. We got the bastard."
"He called you? That was what the trace was about?" Drew looked distraught. Whatever was going on, it had something to do with that call.
"What's going on," Sam repeated.
"I have your trace right here." Shafer handed him a sheet of paper marked “Urgent.” Sam's name was scrawled along one side. The detective looked down the short list of calls made to and from his number.
"This can't be right."
"Sam…" Chief Shafer began without success.
"No, damn it. This says I haven't had a call in over six hours. That's bullshit!" Sam crumpled the report and threw it at the window. "That perp called me just before two. The call lasted several minutes."
"I believe you, Sam," agreed the chief. "We had this problem before. We got the Stephens' phone records. Nothing on there but a couple of calls from his office and several to and from family, but that was it. Nothing correlating with her account that she was called by the blackmailer."
"And how do you suspect he pulled that off?" Sam's anger subsided in place of his investigator's instincts.
"Wish I knew. What I do know is that if he is calling you personally, it can't be good. What did he say to you?" They stared at Sam as he recounted the conversation.
"This guy could see me. I don't get how but he could see me there in my room. Hidden cam, you think?"
"Could be," answered the chief, not very convincingly. "Any ideas how he got your number?"
"I thought about that. I gave my cell number to Peters when we were at his apartment. If the guy was there when Peters jumped, he could have got the number off his body. Of course, that would put doubt on it being a suicide. The perp could have had something directly to do with it."
"I agree." The chief sat silently, then looked up at Sam's uncomfortable partner.
"What is going on?" demanded Sam, his anger rising to the surface. "I'm not leaving here without some answers. Real answers. No bullshit, no pad answers to put me off "for now". Real answers, damn it." The chief stared determinedly at Faith.
"Shut the door and sit down, Sam." Sam sat in the chair beside his partner. Whatever it was that the chief had decided to let Sam in on, it was obvious that he was having a hard time putting the words together. "What do you know about this world, Sam?"
Now Sam was certain that the chief was trying to skirt the issue, but decided to play along. "That's a loaded question, Drew, but I guess if I had to come up with an answer, I would hope to think I knew the world pretty good."
"You're probably right for the most part." The chief pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Okay, let’s go at this at another angle. What lives here?"
"I don't know," Sam shrugged, his patience was running thin. "Um, people, animals, I don't know, cats, dogs, just what are you getting at?"
"What if I told you that there was more to it than that?" Drew Shafer looked like he held the world on his shoulders.
"Like what?"
"Demons, Sam. I am talking about demons."
"Demons," Sam repeated flatly. "Like the devil? Come on. Enough of this cloak and dagger stuff. What's really going on?"
"He's telling you the truth, Sam," Faith whispered, looking down at her clenched fists sitting in her lap.
"Stop screwing with me! The both of you. I want answers, not fairy tales."
"Sam, we're being straight with you," the chief looked hard at his friend as if convincing him was the only thing on his mind. "There are a lot of things in this world that go unseen. Some of us, a very few, can see these things. Some of us can even interact with them."
Sam shot out of his chair like it was on fire. He had had enough.
"So, what are you telling me? You tryin' to tell me that you can see demons? Oh, I know, I know, Faith can see them, too? Bullshit!"
"We aren't bullshitting anybody. We need your help on this, Sam."
"My help? I can refer you to shrinks in New York but here, in Boston, your screwed. And what does this have to do with this case, huh? Your all crazy. I should have never left New York." Sam turned and started to leave.
"Where are you going?" Faith asked, surprised.
"I am going to go get drunk, if you must know. Then maybe I can get just as delusional as the both of you."
Faith jumped to her feet as the door slammed behind him. "Let him go," ordered the chief.
"Let him go? We need him!" Faith yelled, pointing at the door.
"I know, but he has to want to do this. We can't force him." Shafer stood and took his coat off the hat tree by his door. "Go home, get some rest. Real rest. I don't want to see you come in until after 10, got it?" With a nod to the young detective, Drew walked out of his office.
Ah, such life! he thought as he strolled down the busy hallways of Massachusetts General Hospital. They all saw him and yet they did not. He smiled knowingly at the many faces he passed. He was just a glimpse of something to them. Oh, if only they knew. He held their lives in the palm of his hand, and yet they were all unaware. An old man wearing an oxygen mask was being pushed past on a gurney without notice of him in the slightest. The beast continued to walk along, but could not help but smile when he heard the frantic calls for a crash cart from somewhere behind him. It was all necessary, of course. Life went on until it was no longer needed, and in that poor clod's case, he didn’t need his own life as much as it was needed to feed his own hunger.
The isolation wing of the hospital was a special place for this visitor. There were many such places throughout the world where he did his service, but in places like this where the old world held precedence over progress, there was always work for him to do. People needed to let go of things.Whether it be possessions or life itself made no difference to him at all. These beings meant nothing to him. They would learn their place, in time. Until then, he would have to carry out their lessons.
The visitor stepped through the doorway into Sally Brandt's private room. Interesting individuals. A mother with chestnut hair was watching the silent streets through the window, while a young man tried desperately to stay awake to watch over the sleeping angel in the bed.
He walked up to the girl's bedside unobserved. Humans failed to see what was right before them. He gently brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and smiled. Interesting indeed. He leaned down so close that his lips nearly touched her ear.
"My pretty, pretty thing. What will I do with you? Hmm?" He stood and walked silently out the door. He had another house call to make.
9
A ndrew Shafer walked from the precinct to the Old Lamplighte
r Tavern on Hanover Street in half an hour but stayed outside in the cool, moist harbor air for several minutes. He knew Sam had to be there. It was the nearest bar that was open. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he pushed through the old double wooden doors to the pub. Sam was sitting at the bar but stood up as Drew sat beside him. Drew put his hand on his shoulder and forcefully pushed him back down onto the bar stool.
If he couldn’t get through with him now, he knew it would be close to impossible to get him working in their favor. Drew motioned the bartender to bring them a drink. Sam stared into his beer like he had lost the last friend he had. Perhaps, he did. What they told him would have been a shock to anyone.
"Let me tell you a story…" began Drew.
"Does it start with 'Once upon a time'?" Sam asked sarcastically.
"Shut up." Drew's voice was hard. "Just shut up and listen. Then I will walk out and you can pickle yourself. I don't care."
"Okay, I'm listening."
"When I was a kid, I thought I had a pretty normal life. That is, until one morning when I woke up in a church across town. I don't know how I got there. Never even been there before. The priest took me home and that was it. He didn't ask me any questions and neither did my mother. I was eight at the time. Over the next three years, I woke up in that same church a total of four times. Each morning I would be taken home by the priest and mom would feed me and pretend nothing was wrong."
"Sleepwalking?" asked Sam, feigning interest.
"You would think so, but there was no way I walked across town every time. Anyway, things went back to normal for a while. When I was fourteen, I woke up in that church again. This time, the priest didn't take me straight home. He took me back into his office and sat me down. He didn't say much at the time, just handed me this old dusty book that looked like it would crumble to dust any second. It was one of those hand illustrated jobs, the kind with the paintings and filigrees all through it. When I opened it, he turned it around so I could see it. It was an illustration that looked just like me, but with angel wings."
Into the Breach Page 5