Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  Her heart was pulsing in a rapid drum roll. She could feel herself slip into a panic.

  Calm down! Catch your breath! You’re not in a coffin! You’re sitting up! Your arms are cuffed above you! There are sounds nearby! Listen . . .

  It took minutes for her to get her breathing under control. Several times she wanted to gag on her own saliva but couldn’t, felt and heard it gurgle with each breath. She concentrated on slowing down her respiration, counted backward from a hundred more than once. Latched on to the tiniest noise, homing in on it, pretending she could follow it, picture it.

  Someone else was near. She realized she could hear his breathing as hers began to slow. This is a good thing, she told herself. You’re not alone. You haven’t been buried alive or walled up or abandoned in a bomb shelter.

  His breathing. It had to be a he, she decided. The breaths seemed deep, aggressive even. She wasn’t sure how reliable that conclusion was, or whether one could even detect what she was imagining, but the sound smacked of a man. A large man.

  Sherman.

  Fragments of memory began to align themselves into an imperfect recollection. She’d been at a church with Reynolds. She remembered not finding him at the car, going inside. Valentine had been there.

  The missing nun. She’d seen the woman, huddled over in a cloak of some kind. Then what? A dreamy patchwork of images floated by. She was floating, like on a boat. But it didn’t seem like a boat now. Had Hatcher been there? It seemed like he had, but everything kept going back to Sherman.

  She’d come to briefly in an apartment—Deborah’s apartment, she realized. Sherman had been there. But everything was so blurred, so distant. Like she was remembering a dream about a dream.

  And now she was here, wherever here was.

  Reynolds!

  Now she remembered. That son of a bitch! He’d sent her out to the church, then disappeared. Sent her out, and set her up.

  So, whose breaths was she hearing? Sherman’s? Reynolds’s? Someone else’s? She realized there was no way to tell. She was certain she’d know if it was either of the first two as soon as he said word one. Reynolds, because she knew what he sounded like. Sherman because even one squeaky syllable would give it away with that little-boy-kicked-in-the-nuts voice of his. But whoever this guy was, he had yet to speak.

  What she did know was that someone definitely was there. She could hear him moving in place, shifting weight. Feet or knees or ass scraping and shuffling against the floor every few moments.

  She waited, silently, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She opened her mouth to call out.

  Nothing. No words, no sounds. Her throat felt dead. She tried again.

  Not a peep. The only noise was the faint rustle of breaths.

  She shook her hands, rattling the chains of her shackles. They clanged off the hard stone wall behind her.

  Things went dead quiet. Seconds passed, then the breathing resumed.

  Again with the chains. Harder this time.

  Nothing. The responding silence lasted barely a couple of beats, just a brief interruption in the pattern. Breath, pause. Breath, pause. Low, rumbling hisses of air. An occasional snuffle.

  A thought popped like a bubble in her head. He’s asleep.

  Trying to regain control of her own breathing, she diverted her attention to her shackles, ignoring the continued acceleration of her pulse, the fluttering in her chest, the surging jolts of anxiety squeezing her lungs and stomach. The shackles, she told herself. Concentrate on the shackles.

  Too tight to slip her wrists out of them. Too high to allow her to reach her head from where they were. She curled her wrist over and down, tried to push herself higher, bring her head toward her hand. The damn hood had to go.

  Something heavy was around her waist. She could feel it pulling down at her hips, anchoring her to the floor. If she could just push up six inches or so, stretch her spine, extend those fingers just . . . a . . . tiny . . . bit . . . more.

  Her middle finger flicked the protruding edge of the cloth. She pressed harder, clenching her jaw, accepting the pain as the thick, flat metal cuff dug into her skin and cut off circulation. Her fingertips were tingling; her entire hand grew cold. But the tip of her finger now fluttered back and forth against the material at will. All she needed was to get that index finger a bit lower, or that hood just a smidge higher, clip that cloth between the two, then let her body sink down and pull her hand back.

  Closer now. The pain in her wrist was excruciating, a hot, knifing burn, her fingers all pins and needles, her palm icy. The ligaments in the back of her hand were screaming in agony.

  Just a few more—

  Got it.

  She worked the fold of cloth up between her fingers, sliding it slowly, careful to keep hold. Within seconds, she was able to curl her fingers toward her palm, pulling cloth with it. She managed to get several digits hooked into the cloth and balled her hand tightly. She pulled her head down, yanked her wrist up as far as it would go.

  The hood slid up, then off as she bent her head to the side. She shook out her hair, blew strands away from the front of her face. She squinted, blinking. A figure was there, a few feet away. In a cage. Looking at her.

  She screamed without making a sound, her mouth stretched, jaw agape, face twisted—a scream in every way except the lack of noise—as the thing lunged forward toward her. It slammed against the bars, teeth bared in a feral snarl, snout pressed through, a gurgling growl exploding the silence. Arms, incredibly, impossibly long arms reaching for her, insectile fingers grasping, slashing just inches away. She pulled herself back against the wall, head turned to the side, frantically trying to get her legs more fully beneath her. As far from its reach as possible. Far from those teeth and claws and wild hair.

  And those eyes. Those eyes locked on her, manic and hungry, lustful and intelligent. Human eyes. Inhuman eyes. Merciless eyes. Eyes that seemed to know exactly what they were seeing.

  She trembled in fierce waves as she watched it withdraw its arms and sit back in its cage. She could see more of it now, the body coming more into view. It settled into a semi-lotus position, one knee up. A dark, fleshy penis stood tall and unwavering. It rested a hand on it, stroking it gently every few seconds.

  Those eyes were still locked in a coveting stare, but its expression had shifted, causing her heart to palpitate as adrenaline pumped through it.

  Rows of canine teeth fully exposed, head dipped slightly forward, it let out a long, deep breath, almost a sigh. She recoiled, not wanting to believe what she was seeing.

  It was smiling at her.

  HATCHER SAT IN THE SQUAD ROOM AND WAITED, STARING at the clock on the wall. Time, he decided, was nothing if not relative.

  He’d shown up at the precinct less than a half hour after he’d gotten off the phone. Maloney had marched him straight to the room he was in, gotten him a beverage, and told him to sit tight after asking him a few questions. That was hours ago. Hatcher had passed the time staring at Wright’s and Reynolds’s desks. Maloney had stuck his head in every fifteen or twenty minutes, would ask a few more questions, then leave again. It was already three thirty. He couldn’t wait much longer.

  What a difference a day makes, he thought. Maloney was much more cordial this time around, leaving Hatcher to himself unsupervised. No cuffs, no threats. The only time he even sounded like a cop was when he kept reminding Hatcher not to leave.

  He had to go back to the library, then get to Solomon’s office by five thirty. He figured he needed at least forty minutes to be safe, but he would like at least a little time to do some research before he went. That was looking less and less likely.

  Of course, not being restrained or babysat, he could just get up and leave. If challenged in the hall, he could merely say he was looking for the restroom. He decided he’d give it another fifteen minutes, then do just that. If Maloney wanted to issue a warrant, so be it.

  Hours earlier, Hatcher had snooped around. He checked Wright’s
desk first, then Reynolds’s. He had no doubt Maloney expected him to and figured being left alone like that was a form of permission. But if Maloney’d also expected him to find something that shed any light, he hadn’t.

  One thing was different, he noticed. The clown mask was missing from Reynolds’s desk. He wasn’t certain what the significance of that was. Maybe the guy knew he wasn’t coming back. Wanted his trophy.

  Hatcher stood and walked over to the window near Wright’s desk. He looked down at her computer monitor, studied his reflection off the dark screen. He’d looked better, that was for sure. But he’d definitely looked worse, too. He wondered if maybe he was being tested again, if Maloney had someone watching him through a camera. It didn’t matter. Whoever it was would have died of boredom long ago.

  At least sitting in that room had given him time to think. So many things now seemed to make sense, so many others that he’d taken for granted no longer did. The way his father—or stepfather, was it?—had always seemed distant. Now he realized why. Raising a son who wasn’t his, the product of an adulterous affair, was probably too much. Hatcher was already starting to think differently about him. Given the circumstances, he’d actually been sort of decent to him. He’d clearly blamed Hatcher’s mother, not Hatcher himself.

  It also explained why he’d become so chummy with Garrett. His real son.

  But what about Valentine? Hatcher still didn’t know what to make of him, junior or senior. His father had been some sort of professor, an evolutionary biologist, and outspoken atheist. Hatcher had never been much for going to church, but like most soldiers he didn’t consider himself an atheist, either. And in light of what he’d seen over the past few days, he really wasn’t sure what to believe.

  The serious question was, how did he fit into all this? What was Valentine’s game? If the Carnates were right, his half brother was a serial killer with some kind of Hell fetish. And now he had Wright. He didn’t even want to think about Deborah and what role she was playing. It made his head hurt.

  The door to the squad room opened and Maloney entered. He dipped his chin in greeting and grabbed the nearest chair. He didn’t seem to care that Hatcher was behind Wright’s desk.

  “I got my counterpart over at the One-Seventh to back off,” he said. “I told them you didn’t do it, that you’re a cooperating witness helping me out. They’re willing to wait to talk to you, not issue any warrants or treat you as a subject.”

  “Why does it smell like you’re about to stick your hairy ‘but’ in my face?”

  “A pair of deputy U.S. marshals just stopped by my office. They said they had a transport order for you, were supposed to put you on a JPATS flight.”

  “Gillis,” Hatcher said.

  Maloney bobbed his head in agreement. “Your boy must have shot out a request as soon as he found out you’d been detained.”

  “And conveniently forgot to let them know I was cleared and released.”

  “Guess he figured it was worth a shot.”

  Hatcher’s gaze shot over to the clock. “What did you tell them?”

  “That you weren’t in my custody. That you had been picked up for questioning and were released. We didn’t have enough evidence to hold you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Grow up. If I’d started popping off about you being innocent it would have only made them suspicious.”

  “So, I can go?”

  “In a minute, yeah. But there’s something I need to say. I know you’ve been holding out on me. I know you know something about what happened to Amy. Don’t even try to bullshit me. I just know.”

  Hatcher said nothing.

  “I doubt there’s anything I can do to persuade you to tell me, but you’d better understand this. Do not do anything to put her in harm’s way, capisce? Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re up to, don’t take any risks with her life. Or so help me, you’ll regret it.”

  Hatcher started to say something, but stopped himself. This was unexpected and a bit confusing.

  “I’m going to let you walk out of here, but you need to promise me that when you find out where she is, you tell me. Okay? That’s my price for letting you go do your thing.”

  “You think Reynolds is behind her disappearance,” Hatcher said. “Don’t you?”

  “I think wherever she is, Kid Clown isn’t far away.” Maloney stood, placed his hand on the doorknob, and paused. “Wait a few seconds, then head toward the back of the station. I’ll let you out a side exit. Wouldn’t want anyone who’s looking to take you back into custody see you leave.”

  Maloney opened the door and glanced in each direction down the hall. “As you may have already noticed, we cops are nothing if not committed,” he added with a wry chuckle. “Especially to our lies.”

  THEY WERE ALL STILL THERE. THE DAGGER, FRED’S CELL phone, the printouts—all where Hatcher had left them, hidden behind dusty binders on the top shelf of some obscure stacks of periodicals in a poorly lit corner of the library’s third floor. He’d doubted anyone would be likely to pull any of the bound collections of Popular Mechanics from the 1960s in the time he was gone. Judging by the layer of dust, it had been quite a while since the last person had.

  With almost ninety minutes available, he spent the better part of the next hour trying to research Valentine and his father. He found very little, other than a few more newspaper pieces about Valentine’s charitable contributions and business dealings. Valentine Sr. had a few articles published in peer-review journals in the sixties and seventies, esoteric works about various evolutionary proofs observed in wa terfowl and insects that Hatcher was not inclined to read. But he was able to find the man’s obituary. Myles Valentine had died with his wife Roberta in a car accident in 1976. It described him as a high-profile intellectual and “activist” for secular causes. Tenured professor at Princeton, member of the National Science Board. A rising academic star. The obit said he and his wife were survived by a son, Demetrius, eight.

  He picked up the pages Fred had printed, found the one containing the info on Carnates. He checked the time on the cell phone. Forty minutes. That gave him fifteen or so more before he needed to leave. There were three sources listed. He found two of them on the library computer system.

  The first book was titled The Slaves of Solomon. The index referenced a three-page section next to Carnates. The pages were part of a discussion of Jinn and mentioned that Carnates were possibly the female offspring of those creatures and demons. It described them as very beautiful and mentioned that there were tales of Solomon marrying them. Apparently, Jinn weren’t human, but were humanlike.

  The second book was old, a rare 1950s reprint of an eighteenth-century text. The Encyclopedia Infernale. It didn’t contain much about Carnates. The only mention of them was under the entry for Belial, who was reputed to be their sire. It mentioned they were “very humanlike” and “of great beauty,” living for “a generous number of years.” One passage, however, did catch his eye.

  Carnates, being the issue of a fallen angel of hostility, are similar to their relations the Sedim; it is presumed they have inherited the infirmities of same, though perhaps to a less vexing degree as their blood is not whole; iron blessed most hallow, the scream of a virgin pure, and the shattering of glass which carries the ring of God’s judgment, all may cause distress to their senses.

  Glancing first to each side, he bent down and untied the dagger from his calf and slid it out of his sock. He hefted it, ran a thumb along the blade. Iron blessed most hallow.

  He placed the dagger back into his sock beneath his pant leg and laced it against his calf. He left the books on the table and stuffed the printed pages and the cell phone into his pocket. It was time to go.

  THE BUILDING AT THE COMMERCE PLAZA ADDRESS WAS a tower of glass and metal that would have been impressive had it not been wedged between larger towers of even shinier glass and sleeker metal.

  There was a minor exodus of people as Hatcher arrived, a thin stre
am of white- and pink-collar workers filing out of elevators and heading toward the subway. He waited outside the revolving doors for a few minutes before entering. Loitering around the lobby might draw unnecessary attention, but he didn’t want to show up early.

  The floors were waxy green and the trim was black. Hatcher hadn’t been in many high-rise urban office buildings, but he could still sense the look was dated. The architecture, the décor, all of it smacked of the 1980s, peppered with self-conscious nods to modernity that now seem forced and heavy-handed, a look redolent of pastels and synthesizers. A security guard with a buzz cut in a navy blazer and dark blue tie sat behind a circular counter between the banks of elevators, watching an array of monitors while he chatted on a telephone. Hatcher stopped at the touch screen monitor in front of the counter. The guard gave him the once over, but continued his conversation.

  According to the directory, the Law Offices of Stephen Solomon were located on the fourteenth floor, suite 1403. Hatcher exited the elevator and checked the time on his cell phone: 5:27. The suite was not hard to find, located at the end of a corridor to one side of the elevator bank. Two large glass doors with frosted insets partially blocking visibility stood at an angle to the hall. The lawyer’s name was etched through the frosting starting on one door and ending on the other.

  Hatcher paused, looking around. An artificial tree in a large wicker pot stood in a corner of the hallway, near an exit stairway. He walked over and inspected it, then checked the ceiling for security cameras. Seeing none, he removed the dagger from beneath his pant leg and hid it behind the tree. It wasn’t completely concealed, but from the entry to Solomon’s offices it wasn’t visible. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be there very long.

  Inside, a slender blonde sat behind a hutch in an L-shaped reception station near a glass door with a push bar across the middle of it. She looked up as Hatcher approached, flashing a plastic smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Solomon.”