Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “Okay! Okay! He’s at some Episcopalian Church on Ninety-ninth! Grace something or other! He’s got the cop with him!”

  Hatcher lunged forward and got a hand on the ball, stopping it a couple of feet before the edge of the desk.

  “Is she hurt?”

  Sherman exhaled, panted like a sprinter after a dash. “No.” He hesitated. “Little banged up, maybe. That’s all.”

  “Why does he want the dagger?”

  “The dagger?”

  “Yes, the dagger. The one I was told to leave at the front desk. Why does he want it?”

  “I don’t know anything about any fucking dagger.”

  “Then why did he want me to bring it here?”

  “Because when you’re here, you’re not there.”

  Hatcher let those words float though his mind. “How much time do I have?”

  “For what?”

  “To stop whatever he has going down.”

  “All he told me to do was to make sure you didn’t get there.”

  “Tell me what he’s up to.”

  “Who knows? He’s fucking crazy, man. He talks about punishing God and raising some demon.” Sherman swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “I don’t even listen half the time. I just take his money.”

  “And kill women for him.”

  “That’s his gig, man. I just find ’em for him. He’s got some fucking freak he made, some genetics shit. He calls it the ‘Get of Damnation.’ He feeds it those gals’ hearts. You believe that? It was all him.”

  Hatcher looked out the window. The blue of the sky was fading. Lights from the buildings were taking on a new brightness. “Why?”

  “Why? ’Cause he’s fucking crazy. Says it has to be trained. So the demon won’t be confused or some shit. I’m telling you, he’s whacked. He’s holding a fucking nun captive.”

  A nun? Memories of the missing nun Wright had told him about bubbled to the surface.

  “Why Wright?”

  “Huh?”

  “The cop, Detective Wright—why did he take her?”

  “I don’t know, he doesn’t tell me all that shit. Just said she was part of the plan. Heard him talking about it on the phone with that cop he’s got in his pocket. He didn’t seem to know about it till the last minute, either.”

  “What cop?”

  “I don’t know, some detective. I think he works with that chick.”

  Reynolds. He wanted to ask Sherman more about that, but he knew he didn’t have time.

  “What about Deborah?”

  “What about her? That’s one psycho bitch.”

  “Is she a part of this?”

  “Duh. Her and her Carnate friends. Freaks, man. All of them.”

  “Why were you trying to kill her at the hospital then?”

  “Kill her? I was there to protect her. Valentine knew some of those other freaky bitches would make a move on her.”

  There were so many more things he wanted to know, so many more questions, but daylight was all but gone. He didn’t have the luxury.

  “And Wright’s there, now. At the church? Alive?”

  “Yes, Sir Lancelot. Valentine insisted she be there.”

  “How much muscle does he have, other than you?”

  “Just some of those bitches, man. They can be ruthless.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Hates ’em! Would freak if anyone brought a gun in there.”

  “Why?”

  “Who the hell knows? I told you, that son of a bitch is crazy, just plain loony tunes.”

  Hatcher nodded. The shadows slanting across the room told him the information he had would have to do. He took his hand off the ball and let it continue down the track. He saw Sherman’s eyelids spread wide in the mirror.

  “Hey! What the fuck! I told you everything! Hey! Wait! No—!”

  The ball slipped of the end of the desk at a full roll and plummeted straight down. It shattered as it hit the floor, a few inches short of the statue.

  “Oops,” Hatcher said. He pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. “One of these days I’m going to learn how to build a better one of these.”

  MALONEY ANSWERED ON THE THIRD RING.

  “Hatcher?”

  The taxi swerved into the next lane, causing Hatcher to drop his hand and catch himself against the door. He’d offered the driver a hundred bucks if he’d get him to the church as fast as possible. The guy made a wisecrack about being dressed funny for a wedding, but he obviously wanted the money. If he was observing any traffic laws, Hatcher had yet to notice.

  He raised the phone to his ear. “I’m here.”

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I need to know I can trust you.”

  A pause. “To do what?”

  “I’m heading to an Episcopalian church on Ninety-ninth. I think it’s called Grace. You know it?”

  “Yes. Grace Trinity. It’s closed.”

  “I think Wright is there. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Another pause, longer this time. “I’ll meet you out in front.”

  “Be discreet,” Hatcher said. “And come alone. At least until we can see what we’re dealing with. She might get hurt if there are sirens or cars pulling up all over the place. This isn’t your normal hostage situation. There’s a lot you don’t know. I’m trusting you, against my instincts. Have the cavalry ready to go, though.”

  “I’ll be alone.”

  Hatcher shut the phone and adjusted the dagger. The edge of the hilt was rubbing a sore spot on his calf. He realized he should have switched legs. But right now, he couldn’t afford to worry about that. There were too many other things to think about.

  Nothing made sense, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, something right in front of him.

  He had the driver drop him off at the corner and he made his way back along the opposite sidewalk. The church facade was Old World, with Gothic trim over weathered stone. Tall panes of stained glass towered above wrought-iron gates. Slender spires speared heavenward from behind medieval arches. Small gargoyles crouched atop the structure’s corners, mouths open.

  A sign noted services had been relocated for renovation.

  Hatcher kept walking, reversed course at the corner, passed again going the other way. He kept that up for several minutes until he spotted a car parallel park one block over. A man got out and headed his way. He saw right away it was Maloney.

  The detective nodded grimly as he approached. “Been here long?”

  “Few minutes.” Hatcher looked at the skyline. Darkness was spreading like a stain of ink.

  “I’ve got several units on standby. So, Rambo, what did you have in mind?”

  Hatcher turned his head toward the church. “I was thinking I’d have a look around. Inside.”

  “And I suppose I should let you lead, since you’re the only one who seems to have any idea what’s supposed to be going on in there.”

  “I have no real idea what’s going on in there. But there’s only one way to find out. If there’s trouble, you call in the troops.”

  “Sounds simple enough to me,” the lieutenant said, as if considering a suggested place for lunch.

  “You think I’m full of shit, don’t you?”

  Maloney twisted his mouth into a warped frown. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Hatcher said nothing. He watched Maloney watch him for a moment, then crossed the street and angled toward the church.

  An alley with a driveway next to the church led through a patch of shadow to some kind of back lot. A single lamppost threw off a cone of light.

  “I’m just going to use the front door,” Hatcher said, pausing at the alley.

  Maloney gave a noncommital nod. “Because no one would be expecting it?”

  “That, and because in a church, it should provide the most visibility. I have a feeling that if anything is happening in there, it’s happening at the altar. We might be able to s
ee it right away. And if my information is wrong, we’d have a lot less explaining to do. I don’t want to scare some clergyman into a coronary.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Hatcher didn’t tell him the real reason—that going in the front afforded him the most opportunity to keep some space between him and Maloney, to keep him in his sights as much as possible. He still didn’t trust the man. An altercation ending in a gunshot after being caught breaking into the rear of a church seemed like a good setup. A little paranoid, maybe, but he figured that low-grade paranoia had kept him alive this long. You always dance with the one that brung you.

  “Give me ten minutes. If you haven’t heard from me, call in some of your troops. If I find something, I’ll either come get you, or reach you on your cell. Clear?”

  Maloney patted the side pocket of his coat. Hatcher could see something compact move when he tapped it, realized it was his phone. “Five by five.”

  The action on the door handle was heavy. The door opened with a subtle creak as Hatcher tugged on it, spilling a dim yellow glow onto the stone platform of the entrance.

  After glancing one final time at Maloney, Hatcher entered.

  The inside of the church was cool. Hatcher pulled the door shut, heard the latch quietly catch behind him.

  Looking into the nave, he could tell right away something was off. The center aisle ended in abrupt shadow halfway into the church, with soft light illuminating the pews up until that point. The stained glass populating the upper perimeter twinkled with the glow of outside streetlights.

  He walked the aisle slowly, stopping after a few yards, listening. There were sounds he could make out, subtle rustling noises and bumps. He tried to see into the shadow, to what lay inside and beyond it, but couldn’t make out more than a few indistinct shapes. He looked to each side. Passages and walkways beneath arcade columns were draped in darkness.

  This is a trap.

  He turned and started back toward the entrance, then paused. He stared through the anteroom, watching the huge set of double doors. Maloney. Why had he been so agreeable to him going in alone?

  Another tentative step, and something hard scraped under his shoe. He stooped to pick it up. A chunk of marble flooring, flat and smooth on one side. He stood, heard the sounds of the street rush in, then the shutting of the door as he looked up. Maloney was standing in the anteroom. Hatcher watched as the detective drew his revolver and pointed it at him.

  Son of a bitch. I knew it. I knew it, and for some reason I called him anyway. Why the hell did I do that? How could I be so stupid?

  Hatcher tensed his legs, prepared to dive, slide behind one of the pews, use the concealment to move out of the light. But then he became aware of footfalls behind him, growing louder. He whipped his body to the side, blading himself to Maloney, and shot a look back up the aisle.

  A man with a clown’s head was charging toward him, arms high and flailing, enormous bright gloves holding long blades that lashed the air. Hatcher had seen that clown face before, the creepy, elongated eyes, large and maniacal as they sagged to each side, the insane, demonic grin, orange tufts of hair sticking out from each temple and one protruding from the top. The clown mask at the precinct.

  Reynolds’s trophy.

  Three deafening shots rang out in quick succession, a double tap, then a third. The clown’s body jolted as it continued stumbling forward, two tiny explosions erupting in its chest. The mask snapped back violently on the third shot, and the man fell forward onto his clown face. The outstretched blades clanked off the floor barely a yard away from Hatcher’s feet, still in the man’s hands.

  The church had gone unnaturally quiet with the first shot. Hatcher’s ears felt plugged, submerged, and everything he could hear was distant and muffled. Numbness quickly gave way to ringing. He looked at Maloney, who was still holding his gun out. A wisp of smoke curled up from the end of the barrel.

  Hatcher gave a visual sweep of the area, shooting looks in every direction. Nothing seemed to be moving. No other attackers stormed out of the shadows.

  He glanced one more time at Maloney, then moved to the body and took a knee alongside it. He removed the mask. Red hair. Freckles. One blue, unfocused eye, the other eye socket a pulpy, raw wound, oozing blood and other viscous fluids onto the floor. His hands were covered by red hockey gloves with a large machete attached to each, the gloves and blades secured to his forearms with buckled leather straps in some kind of homemade rig.

  “It’s Reynolds,” Hatcher said, barely able to hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears.

  Maloney said nothing. He swallowed and nodded uncertainly.

  Hatcher pressed around his neck for a pulse, not expecting to find any. The front of Reynolds’s throat felt swollen. He was about to turn the body over to inspect it when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

  There were shapes in the shadows down the aisle. They were getting closer.

  He heard Maloney say something through the cotton in his ears, and realized Maloney had been calling out for at least a few seconds.

  As he turned, he spied more movement to each side, shadows within shadows, weaving, bobbing, walking.

  “Go!” Hatcher yelled, pointing toward the front door as he broke into a run. “Get out of here!”

  Maloney seemed rooted to the spot. Before Hatcher could reach him, something dropped in front of him. It slammed against the floor and even through the ringing Hatcher could hear the sickening sound of bones cracking. He stumbled to a stop. The creature pushed itself to its feet uneasily. Hatcher realized it must have leaped from a balcony. It looked at him with black eyes and the upturned snout of a bat.

  Sedim.

  They started to emerge from the darkness in all directions. Four behind him, two from each side. The one in front of him moved toward him with a wobbly gait.

  Hatcher lowered his weight, coiling his leg muscles. The creature reached out for him. Catching hold of its arm, he spun into it, jamming the lower part of his back against its midsection and jerking his body down as he pulled. The Sedim flipped over him and crashed into one of the pews.

  He turned back in time to see Maloney being dragged away by two more, heading into the shadows behind a stone arcade. He vaulted several rows of pews as he heard two more shots ring out, these muted somewhat by the walls, their reports echoing. He sprinted to the edge of the shadow, where two Sedim lunged out of the dark, tackling him.

  Kicking and punching, he managed to rip himself from their grip and get to his feet. He took a few steps back, then barreled through the pair as they stood, knocking them to the floor. He sprinted into the blackness, barely able to see the walls. There was a door to the side. He pulled on it, but it didn’t budge. He called out to Maloney. No response. He called out again. Nothing.

  Think.

  Darkness surrounded him. Placing his back against the door, he pulled out a cell phone—not caring which one—and dialed 911. Nothing. He looked at the glowing display. No signal.

  Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he headed back the way he came. In the light, the two Sedim he’d bowled over were still sprawled on the floor. Strange, he thought.

  The front door was not very far. He bolted out into the light, hurtling the bodies of the Sedim. Six Sedim were in the aisle, near Reynolds’s body, another two were on the far side, straight across from him. None seemed to be moving very fast. Without breaking stride, he rounded the corner into the anteroom, bounded into the set of front doors with a slap. He pulled on each of them, together and one at a time, thumbing the latch repeatedly.

  Shit.

  He turned. The Sedim were close now, almost to the threshold. There was no avoiding them. He took a breath and threw himself forward.

  The only plan he had was to get through them, to try to find an exit on the other side of the church. He crashed into the first one, knocking it backward. Another latched on to his arm. He kicked that one in the chest, sending it flying into a row of pews.r />
  They’re weak, he realized. Not like in the tunnel. Maybe being aboveground saps their strength.

  He let them come. Eight more in all. A hail of punches and kicks and throws. A few got up, but were easily dispatched the second time around. Within a couple of minutes, the aisle was scattered with scaly, inhuman corpses, totally lifeless.

  His shadow suddenly appeared over the bodies. The center of the church erupted in light. He turned toward the altar.

  Scaffolding had been erected along the sides near the pulpits. A portion of one pulpit had been removed where it connected to one of the platforms. The front pews had been moved to the side, clearing a large area. An enormous symbol was engraved in the marble of the floor, something that resembled a huge cross whose bottom half turned into an upside-down question mark, the curling three-quarter circle of it like a fish hook. To either side of it, a few yards back, walls of thick cloth mirrored each other, curtains screening off the view of whatever was behind them.

  On the scaffolding, opposing rows of women stood over bowls set atop pedestals. Beautiful women. Deborah was on one side of the pulpit. Soliya on the other.

  A man stood in the pulpit. An aristocratic air marked his demeanor. Across his face an expression of mild amusement danced in the light.

  “My, you certainly are a bull in a china shop. I believe you’ve met my charming friends,” Valentine said.

  Hatcher recognized several of the other women from the tunnels. Callista winked.

  Dozens of Carnates. And Valentine, looking very much like the photos Hatcher had seen. All of them standing triumphantly, expectantly. All of them watching him.

  “Jacob Hatcher,” Valentine continued. “We finally meet. My brutha from anutha mutha.”

  Hatcher looked directly at Deborah. She stared back like he was a complete stranger, no more familar than a passing pedestrian in a crosswalk, able to hold his gaze without any trace of shame, her expression coldly inscrutable. He did detect the tiniest hint of satisfaction, though, a hint that he sensed had nothing to do with him.