Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “No, not really. I never wanted to keep anything from you.”

  “You omitted a rather large fact. You led me to believe Garrett and I were your only sons.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “So I don’t have another brother?”

  The pressure seemed to be visible as it built inside her. Her body trembled and she glanced in various directions, as if the right answer might be floating around the room.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How can you not be sure whether you had another son?”

  “I didn’t. But your father may have.”

  The implication settled in slowly, and as it did Hatcher began to feel stupid. The obvious possibility hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “Did he ever mention something like that to you?”

  “No. I never spoke to your father after I told him I was pregnant.”

  “What are you talking about? You were married to him for years.”

  “Jacob, I never wanted you to know this, but . . . Phillip wasn’t your father.”

  At that moment, almost everything Hatcher thought he understood about his life ceased to exist. His father wasn’t his father. Things that had made sense suddenly didn’t, and things that didn’t suddenly started to.

  “Who was, then?”

  “You have to understand, Jacob. Your father—I mean, Phillip—I never told you this, but he came back from the war sterile. He said it was from a ‘jungle fever,’ but I always assumed he’d picked up some venereal disease. That’s why he married me when he found out about Garrett. Because he knew that would be his only chance at a son. When we were unable to find him, he—we drifted apart, Jacob.”

  “Who, Mom?”

  “I felt so alone, so starved for affection. Your father—Phillip—he wasn’t a bad man, he was dealing with so many issues from the war, so much stress. And I was so hurt by how distant he became.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I started waitressing nights, to make extra money. There was a man who came in, handsome, very intelligent. He asked me to keep him company. He talked about all kinds of things I didn’t understand. But he made me feel important. Told me how beautiful I was. Said I asked very intelligent questions.”

  “His name, Mom.”

  “Myles. Myles Valentine.”

  Now it was Carl’s turn to comfort her. He wrapped his arm around her, smoothed her hair back. Rested his head against hers.

  To Hatcher, he said, “Happy now? Just leave. Leave her alone. If you weren’t her son, I’d make sure you got what was coming to you.”

  Hatcher said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Soliya wasn’t lying. This guy Valentine was his brother. His half brother. It looked like Garrett had been his half brother, too. What else had Soliya said? Something about Valentine’s parents having been killed. The father he never knew was now dead. The father he did, but not very well, was now dead, too. And belief in some sort of prophecy was driving a series of events that still seemed unreal. His mind seemed to be buckling, a gummed-up machine ready to throw a piston. There was simply too much new information for all of it to be processed.

  The disturbing sound of his mother weeping, punctuated by Carl’s whispers of consolation, was too much too take. Hatcher left the waiting room and ventured into the hallway. He leaned back against a wall, pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. He needed to think.

  “There you are.”

  Hatcher snapped a glance toward the voice. Lieutenant Maloney was approaching. He looked stressed. His eyes sagged, bags starting to form under them. His clothes were wrinkled. Something was eating at him. Badly.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “So I heard.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got mugged.” He took a breath and leaned his head back against the wall. “Never a cop around when you need one.”

  Maloney eyeballed him for several seconds. “If there weren’t other considerations, I’d throw you in a cell and let you rot. I have half a mind to as it is.”

  “I won’t argue with the half-a-mind part.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Hatcher. Cut the bullshit right now. Have you seen Detective Wright? Yes or no.”

  “No. Not since I left the police station.”

  The words seemed to deflate him. He mopped his face. Maloney was obviously nervous, shaken. Hatcher could tell he was trying to hide it, but doing a poor job.

  “Do you think something’s happened to her?”

  Maloney shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just didn’t expect . . . She went off with Reynolds somewhere. Now they’re both incommunicado.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Hatcher said after a pause.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not telling me everything.”

  Maloney stood quietly for several audible breaths, thinking. He started to speak once, twice, until finally seeming to settle on the right choice of words. “Reynolds has been acting strange lately.”

  “Strange how?”

  “It’s not really any of your business, Hatcher. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

  “And you think maybe he’s the reason you can’t reach Wright?”

  “I think I don’t want you to fuck around and get anyone killed. Other people may think you can be relied on to do this or that, but I think you’re a loose cannon.”

  Hatcher gave a gesture of exasperation. “Just what do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I just think that you know how to go about finding her. Whatever you do, just don’t put anyone at risk.”

  The sagging lines of his face matched the hint of desperation in his tone. The man was feeling impotent, scared, and the logical explanation was that he was in love, in love and afraid of losing her. All his warnings were simply his way of letting Hatcher know he was turning him loose to find her.

  “Where do you think they may have been heading?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think it had something to do with Lucas Sherman. Reynolds was asking me questions, like he wanted to know what I knew.”

  “You think Reynolds is dirty?”

  Maloney said nothing. Before long, the silence was interrupted by the tweeting of a cell phone. It took a moment for Hatcher to realize it was his. The ringtone seemed different than what he’d heard before, two short jingles, like dinner bells. He retrieved the phone and glanced at the front panel. It told him he was receiving a PIX message.

  “That reminds me,” Maloney said. “Give me your cell number. I need to be able to reach you.”

  Damn it. Hatcher told him the number. There was no sense in holding it back now, since he couldn’t pretend he didn’t have one.

  Just as he finished reciting it, the phone rang again, this time with the tone Hatcher remembered. He recognized the number of the incoming call.

  Hatcher looked at Maloney and shook his head. “It’s not Wright.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Maloney said, gesturing for Hatcher to take the call. He narrowed his gaze before leaving. “Don’t put her in danger.”

  Hatcher watched Maloney walk away, dodging an orderly and disappearing around a corner. He flipped the phone open and answered. But it wasn’t Fred’s voice on the other end, as he’d expected.

  “Hatcher! Oh my God! You have to come back here! Right away!”

  “Susan?”

  “Please, get over here now!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Fred! I think he’s dead! Oh, dear God! Hurry!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Hatcher slapped a hand to his forehead and squeezed his temples. Jesus, had he gotten the poor old bastard killed? Just what the hell was going on?

  He heard a beep as he started for the elevator and glanced down at the phone. The screen told him the PIX message had finished downloading. He pressed a button corresponding to the word open and a photograph with a
caption filled the screen. It was a picture of Wright, sitting on the floor behind a coffee table, leaning against a black sofa.

  The caption read, If you want her to live, be at the offices of Stephen Solomon, Attorney at Law. Commerce Plaza, Manhattan. 5:30 p.m. sharp. Not sooner, not later. Show this message to or tell anyone about it, she dies.

  Just as he finished reading it, another text message came in.

  And bring the dagger.

  Brother.

  CHAPTER 22

  LUCAS SHERMAN WIPED THE SWEAT FROM HIS BROW ON the back of his heavy work glove. The pause prompted him to remove his safety glasses and rub his eyes, first with the gloves, then without them.

  “Boss, I don’t mean to complain, but I gotta get some sleep.”

  Valentine turned from the stained glass and surveyed the interior of the church from the chancel. “You’re an atheist, Lucas. You’ll sleep when you’re dead. Why would you want to now?”

  With an audible sigh, Sherman slid the thick clear plastic stems of the glasses back over his ears. He slipped the gloves back on, his gaze aimed near his feet.

  “There’s not that much left for you to do,” Valentine added. “You can rest for a while after you finish that section. In fact, I’ll insist you do.”

  Sherman leaned against the push bar of the groove cutter and glanced around. “The priests are gonna freak when they see this.”

  “This isn’t a Catholic church, Lucas. No priests. And, for the time being, I’m the leaseholder. I can do what I want.”

  “But isn’t that chick a nun?” He jerked his thumb to a far corner. The young blonde woman in her habit was crouched in a cage barely large enough to fit her. “I thought nuns were Catholic.”

  “She is. This church isn’t.”

  Sherman half shrugged, half nodded. His eyes wandered back to the hard floor. His lips silently mouthed the word Whatever.

  “It’s called being ecumenical, Lucas. It is not important you understand. I have my reasons.”

  “I’m sure you do, Boss.”

  “The faster you get back to work, the sooner you get to rest.”

  The groove cutter came alive, vibrating violently. The business end of it sent shards and chunks of marble flying as he pushed it, spitting them in every direction.

  Why was he always doing that? Sherman wondered. He’d never told Valentine he was an atheist. Never even thought of himself that way. He just didn’t think there was a Heaven or Hell. God, he wasn’t sure about. The devil? Who knew? And who cared? But he definitely believed in freaks and monsters. He’d seen plenty in his time. Hell, in a way, he was one of them.

  The machine rattled his arms, numbing them. Desecrating a church might be fun another time, but not this way. This was work.

  The outline he was following curved sharply. He disengaged the blade and repositioned the cutter to begin a new groove perpendicular to the one he just finished. This one had to form a half circle. What a pain in the ass. Valentine and his fucked-up rules. No guns. What kind of a fruit doesn’t let his muscle carry a gun?

  Sherman lifted his eyes as he pushed on the bar. There she was, cuffed, bound, and gagged. He would be glad when this was all finished, because then he’d be able to take care of the cop. Valentine hadn’t spelled it out yet, but he knew the cop would be a loose end. Sherman supposed he was, also, but that didn’t bother him.

  Valentine needed him for stuff like this. Who else was there? Deborah? Those other freaky women? Talk about weird. Even if they did have some creepy-ass abilities, he doubted Valentine could trust them.

  Plus, those charms of theirs didn’t work on him. One of the many wonderful benefits of that treatment the state administered.

  There was no one else, he concluded. So for now, he was safe. All he had to do was go about his business, and then, when the time was right, he’d take that skinny shit’s money—he had to have a safe he kept in that penthouse with a few hundred grand stashed away—and beat him to death. Maybe feed his heart to that fucked-up creature he made.

  Until then, he’d just keep working. Working and, assuming the fucker ever let him, sleeping.

  IT TOOK HATCHER ALMOST TWENTY MINUTES TO GET TO Fred’s apartment building. He took the steps two and three at a time and arrived at the unit slightly winded. The door was a sliver ajar. He pushed it open with a slow hand.

  Susan was sitting on a chair, her face contorted in a painful sob. She was looking down at Fred’s body.

  The thing about the dead that stuck out to Hatcher was that they never looked peaceful. Not before the mortician got a hold of them. He’d seen his fair share, rifle wounds, stab wounds, shrapnel wounds, wet work. One thing they had in common is how they seemed frozen in the act of dying, a pantomime of that final moment of resignation. Their bodies were always in uncomfortable-looking positions, even when lying flat on their back. Nobody lies on the floor like a dead person does, not using an arm for a pillow, not lying on one side. The dead he’d come across hadn’t simply drifted off; they’d vacated bodies that looked like they had been fighting to stay alive. In his mind, death equated to eternal discomfort. A restless state, endured in perpetuity.

  Perhaps those who died in bed—people who passed by nonviolent means—were different. But he couldn’t recall ever seeing someone who’d died that way. Not even his father, he realized.

  Fred was no exception. He looked like someone who’d just taken a bad fall, wrenched his back, and couldn’t get up. His spine was slightly arched, his head bent to one side. His eyes seemed unfocused, with one slanting slightly inward. One arm was resting across his belly, the other palm up on the floor.

  An oval puddle of blood spread out across the tile from beneath his head. His neck was cut from one side to the other, just above his Adam’s apple.

  “He called and asked me to come back, said there was something he wanted to give me. I was glad he did. I wanted to thank him. In person. I thought maybe I could give him some money, for helping me.” Susan paused to sob. “Something to show my gratitude.”

  Hatcher knelt next to the body. He briefly contemplated checking for a pulse, but realized it would be futile.

  “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

  “No.” She started crying more forcefully as she spoke. Her words came out like poignant lyrics to a sad song. “The door was unlocked . . . I just opened it and found him like this.”

  “Police?”

  Tears dropped to the floor as she shook her head. “I started to, then I remembered how he told me that if anything were to happen, that I was to get in touch with you. He made sure I had your number.”

  His number. Somebody else seemed to have it, too. Hatcher stared at the dull eyes that already seemed to be cloudy. Sorry, pal, he thought. I’m the one to blame. You just picked the wrong guy to help out.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she added. “Also . . .”

  “What?”

  “I—I think the police may have had something to do with this.”

  Hatcher stood, looking into her eyes, willing her to look back at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because when he called me he told me Detective Reynolds was on his way up, but that he’d be gone by the time I got here. He sounded very nervous. Like he was trying to keep calm about it.”

  Reynolds.

  “I asked him which one was Reynolds, if he was one of the ones at Garrett’s office, and he said no. But I think he was wrong, I think he was there. The one with the red hair.”

  Amy. Maloney had been right to be worried. She and Reynolds had gone off together, and now they were both unaccounted for. But Wright was the one he knew was being held. Reynolds had to be involved. The little apple-pie-looking creep.

  “I was scared,” Susan said. “So I called you.”

  “It’s okay,” Hatcher said. “You did the right thing. When he called, did he say what he wanted to give you?”

  “No. This seems like it’s all my fault.”

  “Th
at’s just survivor guilt, Susan. This had nothing to do with you.” Hatcher wished he could believe that about himself. This actually was his fault, he had no doubt. “Can you think of anything else he told you?”

  “Nothing. He just told me to come back, that he had something to show me.”

  Nodding again, Hatcher surveyed the room. No obvious signs of a struggle. And there was no shortage of things that could break. The room looked like an air traffic control tower, so many computer monitors and electronic display screens around. One monitor on a corner desk caught his eye. A UFO was bouncing off the edges of the black screen, crisscrossing it in diagonals. A screen saver. Hatcher found a keyboard tray where a drawer normally would be. The moving image disappeared when he tapped the space bar, replaced by icons and a wallpaper that took a few seconds to populate the screen. The wallpaper was a photo of a tree and a fence with a slope of grass. A street was in the foreground. There was something familiar about the scene. It took him a moment, but Hatcher realized it was a picture from Dallas. The grassy knoll.

  He slid the mouse and clicked on the Internet icon. The front page of a website called TrustNoOne appeared. A clearinghouse for conspiracy theories, from the looks of it. Hatcher clicked on the drop arrow next to the web address box. Nothing. Hatcher realized he shouldn’t be surprised. He imagined paranoiacs like Fred didn’t leave web trails.

  “What are you looking for?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know. Anything.” He straightened up and swept the room again. As he did, the sight of her standing next to Fred’s corpse hit him.

  Had he been entertaining the notion Susan may have killed Fred, or been in league with whomever did, the way she stood there would have struck it from his mind once and for all. No one was that good an actress. She looked a wreck. Not physically, like he was sure he did, but emotionally. Her shoulders weaved as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She was biting at the back of her thumbnail, her other arm wrapped around her torso, hugging herself. The press of her arm against her loose blouse showed her pregnancy. His dead brother’s child. He found it ironic that after finding out Garrett may have been at most a half sibling, he finally started to think of him as a brother.