Soon all will be revealed.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
The voice that sings the song she has heard so many times in a life punctuated by so many darknesses sounds different.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
She realizes why. And thinks this may be why the men are so upset. She does not understand their reaction. She is not upset. She feels like she might fly.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
The voice is not that of the woman in the car. It is not that of the black man who reads to her.
It is her own.
She is speaking again.
She cannot move her body. She cannot even smile. But her voice sounds, clear and true. A song comes from lips long sealed.
She is still staring into the mist.
The faces are closer. She cannot see their features, but the fear she felt before is greater now.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
The sound of her voice makes her braver. Not all-the-way brave, but strong enough. Strong enough to ignore the shouting of the men, strong enough to stare at the faces without terror, strong enough to keep from falling in the darktimes that she senses still lurking at all sides.
Most of all, she is strong enough to know something she has not known in a long time: this is Now. This is Present.
The woman with the bleeding face is Past. The black man with sad eyes: both Past and Present.
The shining dream she has had: Future.
Things have grown clear, if only for a moment.
ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ
The faces in the gray come closer.
The mists begin to part.
POST MORTEM
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:57 AM
Subject: My wife
I need you to find her. Her seecurity detail isnʹt t communicating and I canʹt work on anyything els until I know sheʹs safe. I cant think straight.
From: 'X'
To: POTUS
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:57 AM
Subject: RE: My wife
I anticipated problems. Sheʹs with my people. Donʹt worry about it. Focus.
***
ʺThereʹs no one back here.ʺ
Melville came out of the small room behind the reception area, looking right and left as though he might have missed something in the tiny front office.
Isaiah didnʹt look around. Unless the people they were after had the ability to hide under peeling linoleum floor tiles, this place was empty.
He kept his eyes forward, fixed on his new partner. Trying to keep himself under control. He was trembling, and hadnʹt stopped for some time. The tremors were small and, he hoped, not noticeable to anyone else, but he felt each individual shiver like its own earthquake weakening the structures of his mind.
He was reacting to a combination of factors. The fact that he had been up close to thirty-six hours. Seeing Idella Ferrell, a poor woman who had already suffered so much for so little reason, dragged out of a car after being ravaged and murdered. Losing Nicholas, man of God and friend and cribbage player extraordinaire. The unreal fog that had cloaked the world sometime after dawn. The fact that he was less his own master than he could remember being in years.
Mostly it was the violation he had endured. He had devoted himself to righting what he felt were otherwise unrightable wrongs–helping women who would never testify against abusive husbands, avenging dead children whose parents were negligent in states that just didnʹt care, destroying drug dealers whose tentacles pulled apart the foundations of entire neighborhoods–and he spent all the money he earned on Katherine, putting her in the best hospitals, securing the best help.
Still, most of the time he managed to avoid thinking of why he helped her. The facts were always there, of course, but he could push them underneath a layer of work, bury guilt beneath an opaque film of the love he had somehow created for his adoptive daughter.
Melville had torn apart his frail delusions, his fragile illusions. He had forced him to face reality, and reality was one of the few things that could crush Isaiah like a slug under a boot heel. Reality reminded him that, no matter what he did, he was still the most unjust of men. He was a killer, and no righting of other wrongs could ever put him in the black on lifeʹs ledger. Not just a sinner, but a man of evil. He had destroyed lives as a young man, then had merely failed to save them as a priest–not much of an improvement, simply destruction by omission instead of commission.
And then: a decade of intentional destruction. In service of an innocent, yes. To balance some wrongs, true.
But the acts still stained Isaiahʹs spirit. And talking about it with Melville was just a harsh reminder of how black a soul he had become.
Then there was Dominic. Isaiah still had no clue who the elegant man was, other than someone very powerful, very connected. But he had orchestrated all this, from the deaths of Idella Ferrell and Nicholas to the kidnapping of sweet Katherine. And the way he had done it–not the m.o., but the look in his eyes, the lack of any remorse–was a sure sign that this wasnʹt the first time he had practiced such tactics.
Isaiah no longer knew if he believed in God. And because of that he could no longer be sure of the reality of a Devil, either. But if pure evil had a face, it was sure to be aristocratic, elegant. Well-styled hair, graying at the temples, and eyes that smiled most when pain was present.
ʺWe know theyʹre here,ʺ said Melville. ʺHer card was tagged here, so they gotta be here.ʺ
Isaiah nodded. There had only been one car in the lot, an old Honda Civic, and they parked beside it. Isaiah always carried a few tools with him, among them a razor sharp knife he wore under his frock. He used it to slash the Hondaʹs tires. Neither John nor Serafina would be going anywhere in that car. Nor did he think anyone could hotwire the sedan he and Melville had come in without a great deal of difficulty. It was too new and had too many failsafes built in against that sort of thing.
Melville raised his hand to ring the desk bell. Isaiah caught his wrist. ʺYou want to alert everyone that weʹre here?ʺ he said.
ʺThey musta seen us drive in,ʺ said Melville. ʺMaybe we can get the manager.ʺ
ʺAnd maybe we can tell them exactly where we are and let the super soldier get the drop on us. Or is that your end strategy?ʺ he said bitingly.
Melvilleʹs eyes narrowed. No punches on the shoulder or talk of being pals. He looked murderous. Isaiah far preferred that. The talk of being friends made his skin feel like it was curling off his flesh.
ʺWhat, then?ʺ said the killer.
ʺThe place is laid out in more or less a straight line,ʺ said Isaiah. ʺWe just go down the rooms. Kick one door in at a time. One of us goes in each room to check it out while the other one stands guard to make sure they donʹt try to make a break for it.ʺ
Melville mulled it over. ʺOkay. You check the rooms, though. If one of us is getting jumped in the can, I donʹt want it to be me.ʺ
Isaiah rolled his eyes. He didnʹt say anything though, not with Katherineʹs life riding on his every move.
He would kill Melville eventually–kill them all–but for now he would be a good little doggy.
ʺFine,ʺ he said.
The doors were arranged in a straight line heading north from the motel office. All of them were closed, with all the windows curtained. No movement. Both men watched for a moment.
John and Serafina were here. Isaiah could feel it. You got a sense after a while, a feeling when your quarry was near. A psychic scent that told you when a house was empty, as opposed to just empty seeming.
This place…the latter.
Isaiah was still holding his knife in one hand, and one of the Glock 34s
heʹd taken from the armaments in the back of the car in the other. Melville was holding the assault shotgun. No explosive rounds loaded in the mag, but even the buckshot he had chosen would kill anything within the confines of a motel room. Isaiah knew he would shoot first and ask questions later. Not only was that the intent of this mission, but Melville also clearly reveled in mayhem and bloodshed and pain.
Isaiah might actually get a bit cleaner on balance when he killed this man.
ʺLetʹs go,ʺ he said.
They went to the first room. Isaiah didnʹt bother knocking, he just kicked down the door. The door itself was fairly sturdy, solid core construction. But the lock looked like it was fashioned out of tin foil and shattered easily.
The door exploded inward. Slammed to ninety degrees and then crashed into a wall. Isaiah followed it immediately, leading with the gun. He didnʹt know if John was armed, but if he was this would be the most dangerous moment of entry: the doorway providing a perfect frame with himself in the center. The best hope would be a fast entry, a surprise attack.
Isaiah flew into the room. It was dim, though not much more so than the unreal twilight of the fog-ridden world outside. It was also empty. The closet, a shallow space big enough to hang a few shirts and not much else, hung open. The bathroom was directly to his side, door also open, shower curtain around the tub drawn aside so there was no way to hide anything within.
He walked to the bed. A twin. Looked behind it even though he knew nothing would be here. Unlikely that John and Serafina would choose a room with a single twin bed. Besides, the place felt empty.
He verified the space beyond the bed hid nothing but more of the ugly carpet that crawled through the rest of the room, checked to make sure the bed frame was set too low to allow anyone to hide beneath, then went back outside the room.
Melville was on the walkway. His back to the wall, he was looking back and forth, trying to keep an eye on the rooms where they were headed and also on the area beyond the main office.
The fog seemed thicker. Wisps pushed onto the walkway beside the motel, tendrils touching Melvilleʹs expensive shoes. He kept stepping away from them, though Isaiah couldnʹt tell if that was a conscious act or not.
ʺEmpty,ʺ he said, jerking his chin at the room behind him. Melville nodded.
They went to the next room. Isaiah repeated the actions he had just taken. Nothing. He and Melville moved on.
The door to the third room was ajar.
Not completely. Not so much that either of them could have seen it from anywhere but directly in front of the door. The door was right against the inside of the jamb, the dead latch touching the inside line of the strike plate.
Melville stared at Isaiah. Isaiah moved his head toward the room, silently asking his partner/captor to come inside with him this time.
Melvilleʹs fingers gripped the assault rifle tighter. Answer enough.
Isaiah used the barrel of his gun to push the door open. It opened, but on hinges that squeaked noisily. He gritted his teeth as the sound tore holes in the silence he had hoped to drape around himself.
He leaned around the corner. Quick look.
A bed–queen, so it was the first one he had seen that was big enough to warrant two people. A bathroom at the far corner.
A fat man on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth. Pants loosened and hanging below a grotesquely oversized posterior.
Isaiah went in, fast and low. There was no one on the bed, and he suspected no one behind it, either.
The fat man groaned. The floor was wet beside him, the carpet sodden not just with blood but with water that trailed into the bathroom.
Isaiah followed the water. He glanced behind the bed. Nothing there, as expected.
The bathroom was a mess. The tub was full but water was splashed everywhere. The sink, the toilet, even the crappy drop ceiling had wet patches on it.
Other than the water, though, the bathroom was empty. Ugly–the only thing that looked in remotely good repair was the toilet lid, which was oddly heavy-duty and well-kept compared to the rest of the place–but empty.
Isaiah went back to the motel room. Melville had turned the fat man fully on his back. He was slapping him.
ʺWake up,ʺ he said. ʺWake up!ʺ
The man groaned but didnʹt open his eyes. Melville resumed slapping him, harder and harder. Isaiah suspected that would only help him into deeper levels of insensibility.
He went back to the bathroom. There were a pair of plastic cups on the sink, each one wrapped in its own little plastic bag. He tore one open, filled it with water from the bath, then walked into the room and tossed it on the unconscious manʹs face.
Some hit Melville on the back of the head. Melville glared at him.
ʺSorry,ʺ said Isaiah. He smiled as sincerely as he could.
ʺYou sonof–ʺ
The man on the floor sputtered and coughed. His eyes opened. He screamed. Blood poured from his throat. ʺWhereʹd she–?ʺ His eyes roved over Isaiah and Melville, unfocused at first but gradually zeroing in on Isaiahʹs outfit.
ʺFather?ʺ he said.
ʺWeʹre looking for someone, son,ʺ said Isaiah. ʺA man and a woman.ʺ
The fat man looked supremely uncomfortable. ʺI…I donʹt…I havenʹt seen any woman.ʺ
Melville punched him in the chest. The fat man gasped. ʺDonʹt lie,ʺ said Melville. ʺDonʹt you know lying to a priest will get you sent to Hell?ʺ He punched the man a second time.
ʺI donʹt–ʺ began the man. Melville slammed his fist down a third time. Isaiah thought he heard a crack and wondered if the fat manʹs sternum had just fractured.
ʺDonʹt lie!ʺ screamed Melville. The scream was high-pitched, dancing in and out of control.
ʺShe was here! There was a woman here!ʺ screamed the man. His thick arms went protectively over his chest, crossed like he was praying.
ʺWhere is she now?ʺ asked Isaiah.
ʺI donʹt know. She jumped me. Her and her fiancée. They just went nuts and–ʺ
ʺI donʹt think thatʹs what really happened.ʺ Isaiah stared pointedly at the manʹs still-lowered pants. ʺYouʹre the manager?ʺ The man nodded. ʺWeʹll ask you again. Where are they?ʺ
ʺI donʹt know. They were here, but she–ʺ
ʺDonʹt tell me she attacked you, or Iʹll have my associate beat your heart to a pulp,ʺ said Isaiah. The manʹs eyes widened. He looked at Melville, who was grinning like a dog with its face out the window of a speeding car. The manager moaned. ʺWhat happened?ʺ
ʺI…I liked her.ʺ
Isaiahʹs lip curled. ʺSo you attacked her.ʺ Not a question. The manager nodded anyway. ʺAnd then?ʺ
ʺThe fiancée hit me.ʺ He sniffled. Wiped some crusted blood from his nose and upper lip. ʺSucker punched me. Coward.ʺ
ʺWhereʹd they go after that?ʺ said Melville.
ʺI donʹt know!ʺ screamed the manager. ʺI donʹt remember, I just….ʺ He licked his lips.
Isaiah stepped back. The managerʹs tongue was gray. Scaly. And at the same time he saw spines erupt along the side of the manʹs neck.
Melville threw himself off the fat man with a shout. He had seen it, too.
Even though both of them were vaccinated against the terrible disease that John was carrying, it was still horrible to see it. More spiky growths shoved their way through the fat manʹs skin. He didnʹt seem to notice, but he saw the fear and disgust on their faces.
ʺWhat?ʺ he said. ʺWhatʹs going on?ʺ
Then he started to scream.
The scream was terrible. A high, wailing thing that was almost a song, a hymn whose verse and chorus were prayers to a god of fear. It grew louder and louder, higher and higher. Shearing away layers of rational thought from Isaiahʹs mind until he felt like joining the man in his screams.
The fat man wasnʹt afraid of him, either. Nor of Melville. He might have been a moment ago, but now it was something else. He had turned his head, and was staring past them. Still wailing, but ululating words danced through g
aps in his screams. ʺDonʹt let it donʹt let it donʹt let it get me itʹs come itʹs finally come….ʺ
Isaiah looked in the direction the manager was staring. Through the still-open door to the motel. He could see nothing. Only fog. Only the gray of the mist that now seemed like the only real thing left in a world gone mad.
ʺ…donʹt let it come donʹt let it in–ʺ
The shrieks died in a roar so loud it was like the first moments of creation. The roar was followed by a heavy splash, and Isaiah knew what he would see when he looked back.
The managerʹs head and neck were gone. There was only a red smear of gore that ran from the mottled stump at the ends of his collarbones all the way to the far wall. Dark black circles marked gunpowder burns, others circles on the floor marked spots where the shot had embedded.
ʺHe could have told us something,ʺ said Isaiah.
Melville shook his head. ʺHe couldnʹt tell us nothing.ʺ
ʺYou didnʹt have to do that.ʺ
Melville laughed, and suddenly Isaiah recognized a similarity between this laugh and the scream of the manager. Both were sounds of men who looked into abysses too deep to fully understand, too dark to comprehend what beasts might hide within.
ʺI donʹt have to do anything,ʺ said the killer. He licked his lips, another eerie analogue to the fat man. ʺBut I get to do a lot of things. Besides, he was creeping me out.ʺ
ʺYeah,ʺ said Isaiah. He couldnʹt argue that point. He glanced at the open door. He almost expected to see something moving out there. Ghosts, specters come to drag him to where he belonged.
There was nothing. Swirls of fog.
Melville looked away from the headless corpse. ʺJohn and Serafina probably busted out of here a while before we got here.ʺ He sighed. ʺWhat a pain in the ass.ʺ
ʺWell, we–ʺ Isaiah broke off. He strode into the bathroom.
ʺWhat is it?ʺ said Melville.
ʺMaybe they didnʹt leave a while ago. Maybe they didnʹt leave at all.ʺ
ʺYou think theyʹre hiding in the toilet?ʺ Melville smirked.
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