Blood of Angels

by Reed Arvin

  My phone rings.

  “Fuck,” Newton says, jerking upright. “You on this, Kipling?”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice says. “Just a moment.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Newton whispers. “Come on baby, talk to me.”

  “Do I answer it?” I ask.

  “Does he answer it, Kipling?”

  “Yes, sir. Answer the phone.”

  I press “talk.” “Bridges? Is that you, Bridges?”

  “I have it, sir,” Kipling says. “It’s not a voice call. You’re receiving an SMS signal. It might be a picture.”

  “What’s the ID number, Kipling?” Newton says.

  A pause. “It’s 477911009CDMA.”

  Newton is typing while she talks. “Come on, come on, come on.” We sit, tense, while the picture downloads. When it pops onto the screen, it’s fairly dark, and the picture isn’t clear. I stare, just to be sure, stand, and walk away from the table.

  “What is it?” Myers demands, moving to look. “I can’t figure this out.”

  I look over and see Bec in the doorway. She starts toward the table, and I grab her arm to stop her. She wrenches it away and walks to the table. Slowly, she leans over. A second passes, and she turns toward me, horror in her eyes. “It’s a birthmark on my daughter’s inner thigh,” she says quietly. “Which means she’s nude.”

  “Jesus,” Myers says, sitting down. The picture completes, and the call ends. He looks at Newton. “Tell me you have him,” he says.

  Newton is staring at his computer screen, typing commands. He looks up. “I don’t get it. It didn’t lock.”

  Myers stares. “You sure? Was there a good signal?”

  “The signal was excellent,” Kipling says, over the speaker. “The odds of a successful triangulation were ninety-four percent.”

  Newton looks up. “It locked on two towers almost instantly. But it never got a third.”

  Myers stands up, frustrated. “Dammit! There are five towers near here. It should be a piece of cake.”

  I look at Myers. “You didn’t get him.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Look, it’s a fluke. He’ll call back; we’ll nail him.”

  I nod and walk out of the room. Always a step ahead. Always smarter than we are.

  I SPEND AN HOUR ALONE, trying to exorcize my demons. It’s impossible to let myself think about where Jazz is, but great, horrifying chasms of empty time stretch out in front of me, tempting hideous images into my mind. I’m afraid to close my eyes because Bridges waits in the darkness, and Jazz is there with him. Compounding everything is the sense of helplessness. Bridges is in control of everything, reducing us to nothing more than waiting. I don’t know why Newton and the FBI can’t lock down from where Bridges is calling, but it doesn’t surprise me. There was no way in hell he wouldn’t have figured that out. This is the culmination of seven years of planning, and we’re along for the ride.

  I finally wander back into the dining room to see Sarandokos standing in the doorway, wearing a tailored suit. “I’m going to Channel Four,” he says.

  Myers looks up, surprised. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s offering a reward,” I say. “A million dollars.”

  “Why didn’t I know anything about this?”

  “Because it doesn’t concern you,” Sarandokos replies. “I’m offering the money for Jasmine’s return, no questions asked.”

  “Wait a minute; we have to sort this out. We’ve got to coordinate.”

  “There’s nothing to coordinate,” Sarandokos snaps. “Your equipment isn’t working, is it?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “And so far you have nothing, correct?”

  “Look, you’re gonna open a whole can of worms with this.”

  “I find, Agent Myers, that greed is a great equalizer. Jasmine is going to be dead soon unless something changes. So I will make it change.” He walks out. Rebecca waits for him by the door. He hugs her, and she turns and goes back upstairs.

  “Great,” Myers says. “We’re going to have every fruitcake in town sending us on snipe hunts.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “It can’t be any worse than sitting here on the end of Bridges’s chain.”

  Newton grumbles and shifts in his chair. “When are those other agents getting here?”

  Myers looks at his watch. “By eight,” he says. “They’re sending Goodman, Jordan, and Chavez. They’re going over the house.”

  “Wonderful. When they finish that, they can sit here and watch this damn phone with us.” Newton grunts and settles into his chair. “I’m gonna paint a fucking S on this guy’s shirt when we find him. How he manages to connect a phone call with that kind of signal strength and it can’t be triangulated is beyond me. Maybe we need to get some damn Kryptonite or something.”

  Myers reaches over and mutes the microphone. “I’ll be outside,” he says. “I can’t take staring at this thing anymore.”

  The day stretches before us like a festering wound. Every minute makes it blacker and deeper, and the knowledge that the waiting gives Bridges pleasure is enough to make me go mad. Like the horror of the day, my anger deepens, until I can’t see anything but Bridges in my mind, and the thought of a bullet entering his brain, his face contorted in surprise and agony.

  I don’t watch Sarandokos make his pitch on TV, although Myers and Newton do. When I walk by the dining table afterward, Myers shakes his head and says, “He gave his home phone number. I’d give it about an hour before the nutcases start in.”

  Myers’s prediction turns out to be optimistic; it’s less than twenty before the calls start, and Myers is forced to take the first several, before Sarandokos gets back. When Michael finally returns, Myers hands him the phone. “Here,” he says. “This was your idea. You can deal with it.”

  The agents who were due at 8:00 show up seven minutes late, earning them a sharp reprimand from Myers. The three officers—two men and a woman—unload their equipment and start through the house, examining it room by room. At least it’s something to watch. But I don’t care what they find, since they’ll never find it in time to help Jazz.

  Myers lets the agents work on the dining room first, then banishes them to keep them out of our hair. It’s necessary, but it means that staying out of their way relegates us to two rooms of the house for the duration. Myers, Newton, and I gather once again around the table, exhausted and tense.

  “This could go on for a while, you know?” Newton says. “I mean, think about it.”

  Myers nods. “The cops are out looking for him, though. There’s risk in stretching it out too long.”

  “How long as it been since the last call? Maybe he’s setting up a pattern.”

  Myers looks at his watch. “A little more than three hours,” he says.

  “It feels like ten,” Newton says, leaning back in his chair.

  BY THE TIME MARIA brings in sandwiches at 11:00, we’re crawling in our skins. “Eat, Señor Dennehy,” she says. “You must keep up your strength.” Her eyes are swollen with crying; she loves Jazz like her own daughter, and even though she’s staying out of the way, I know what’s happened is hard on her.

  Myers and Newton dig in hungrily, but I ignore the food. I catch myself falling asleep, blanking out for minutes at a time. It’s becoming clear I can’t go on like this much longer. At some point, I’m going to have to get some actual rest.

  I drift out for long enough that when the phone jerks me back awake, I have no idea how long I’ve been out. I stare over at Newton, who is punching keys on his computer. “We’re on, man,” he says. “You getting this, Kipling?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s changed phones. Give me a moment, please.”

  Newton is staring at the signal strength on his computer screen, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, he’s pegging the meters. We’re gonna get him. I’m telling you, he’s toast.”

  “I have him, sir,” Kipling says. “It’s a Motorola V600. Just give me
a second, please.”

  Newton looks over at me. “They’re easier to track.”

  “That’s correct, sir. Just a second…44386508GSM1. Do you have it?”

  Newton types. “Come on, you lousy son of a bitch. I know you’re out there somewhere. Come to Papa.”

  “It’s another picture,” I say, filling with dread. I look and turn away in horror. The picture shows the same part of Jasmine’s upper leg, but now the birthmark has been removed. Whatever he used to slice off the birthmark, it was razor sharp and wielded with precision. Tiny droplets of blood ooze from the wound. I stand and walk to the wall, holding my sides. Like before, Bec appears in the doorway. She sees me, and I shake my head. “Don’t,” I whisper.

  She slumps, holding herself up by the door. Maria comes in, and I motion her toward Bec. She gets Bec turned around, and they vanish back upstairs.

  I turn to Newton. “Did you get it?”

  Newton is pounding away, his expression confused. “Dammit! Come on, you son of a bitch!”

  “Are you getting it, sir?” Kipling asks. “The signal is excellent.”

  Newton types a few more seconds, then looks up, the color drained from his face. “I can’t explain it,” he says, slumping down in his chair. “The fucking CIA can’t defeat this thing. It’s physics, man.”

  Myers strides to Newton’s computer. “What the hell’s going on, Newt?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a rock-solid signal, and I simply can’t triangulate it. Dammit!”

  I didn’t know exactly when my point of collapse would come, but this is it. I walk to the wall, turn, and slide on my back down to the floor. I close my eyes. I know that I’m going away now, and I don’t care. I’ll be back, although I’m not sure in what condition. But it is simply no longer possible for me to count second after second with Jazz in the clutches of a man I now understand is a complete monster.

  “Sir?” Blair Kipling’s voice comes over the speaker, but I barely notice.

  “Not now, Kipling.” Myers walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did our best. He’s just…I don’t know. We just can’t crack the thing, that’s all.”

  “Sir?”

  Myers turns, his expression irritated. “What is it, Kipling?”

  “I was just going to say, sir. The Nokia 475 is a GSM-1 compatible phone.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  “That particular model receives SMS text messages, even when the phone is turned off.” Myers motions to Newton to mute. “What I’m saying, sir, is that I can turn on the GPS feature inside that phone remotely.”

  Newton’s finger freezes an inch above the mute button. I look up, not breathing. “What did you say?” Myers asks.

  “I can turn the GPS in the phone on from here, sir. It gives an exact—”

  “Do it, Kipling! For the love of God, just do it!”

  “I just did, sir.”

  Myers sprints to the speakerphone. “Are you saying you have him?”

  “Yes, sir. The phone is at the intersection of Avondale and Middleton, moving north.”

  The three of us stare at each other an electric second; the next we’re heading to the door. “Call me on my cell line, Kipling,” Myers yells into the speakerphone. “We’re moving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Newton, Myers, and I sprint down the stairs and pile into Myers’s car. Myers spins a one-eighty and hauls out of President’s Club. His phone rings at the gate, and he answers on speaker. “It’s Blair Kipling, Agent Myers. I have you on GPS. You’re about six miles from the target.”

  “You’re a damn genius, Kipling. Did anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Thank you, sir. We pride ourselves on our service.”

  Myers looks over at me and grins. “We’re gonna get this bastard. He finally fucked up.”

  “How about a roadblock?” Newton says from the backseat.

  “No,” I answer. “I don’t want him to panic while Jazz is still alive. We have the advantage as long as he doesn’t know we’re in pursuit.”

  We pull onto Concord Road and head west towards I-65.

  “Talk to me, Kipling,” Myers says. “Where is he now?”

  “The phone has stopped, sir. It’s at the intersection of Avondale and Walnut Grove.”

  “Jesus,” Newton says, “we’re less than four miles away.”

  Myers rockets the Ford onto the highway toward the Moore’s Lane exit. We screech down the exit ramp, blow through the stop sign, and turn left. Forty seconds later, Kipling’s voice comes on the speaker phone. “It’s moving again, sir. It’s pulled onto Carothers Parkway and is proceeding south at thirty-eight miles per hour.”

  “What’s this guy doing?” Newton growls. “You think he’s having car trouble? Maybe he’s breaking down.”

  I pull out my gun from my belt and check the safety. Myers glances over but says nothing. I stare out the window, counting the seconds before I get to Jazz. Three minutes later we turn onto Carothers, a commercial street which fortunately has light traffic; we scream unimpeded toward Cool Springs Boulevard. There are only five vehicles in sight, and one is some kind of delivery van.

  “Three hundred yards straight ahead,” Kipling says. “But we’re getting down to where I can’t be sure about the accuracy of the readings.”

  “Just tell me if we pass the guy,” Myers says. We drive up about sixty miles per hour, passing cars. I look up ahead and see a four-door Chevrolet, and although it’s not tan, it’s about the right year. There’s a single figure in the driver’s seat. He looks to be about Bridges’s size. “Up there,” I say. “That Chevy.”

  Myers floors it, and in a few seconds we’re directly behind the car.

  My heart is pounding. The figure might be Bridges—it’s impossible to be sure—but I don’t see anyone else. Where is Jazz? Down in the floorboards? Stuffed in the trunk? I grip the pistol. “Pull up, on the right rear quarter panel. Let me get a look.”

  Myers creeps up beside the Chevy. I lean forward, peering through the other car’s rear window. “Fuck. It’s not him.”

  “What?” Myers says. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s not him.”

  “The phone just turned west, Agent Myers,” the voice says. “It’s moving at fifteen miles an hour.”

  “Where, dammit?” Myers yells.

  I crane my neck around, and I see the delivery van heading west down a side street. “It’s the van! Turn around!”

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “West, right? You said west?”

  “That’s right,” Kipling says. “Moving about fifteen miles an hour.”

  Myers whips across oncoming traffic, narrowly missing a car. “It’s the only vehicle that turned,” Myers says. “Hang on, little girl. We’re almost there.”

  We’re fifty yards behind the van now, with a white Toyota between us. My hand is sweating on the gun. “Come up slow, so he doesn’t panic,” I say. Hang on, Jazz. Just a little longer.

  Myers nods. “Next stop sign that comes, I’m giving him a California stop.”

  “If she’s in the back, she might get hurt,” I say. “Isn’t there another way?”

  Myers shakes his head. “If I get in front of that thing, he’ll just drive straight through us. Then we’ve got a chase, and that’s worse.” He looks over at me. “Agreed?”

  I nod. “OK.” Hold on, sweetie. It’s going to be bumpy.

  “Newton and I will handle the driver,” Myers says. “You go to the back and get your daughter away from the van.” I nod. “Everybody ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Newton says from the back. A hundred yards later, the little convoy approaches a stop sign. The van’s brake lights come on, and all three vehicles begin to slow. “Hang on,” Myers says, and he floors the throttle. He snaps around the Toyota, expertly puts his left bumper just behind the van’s right rear tire, and steers left. The van spins halfway around on a tight
axis, tires squealing. It lurches to a stop, sliding left on all four tires as its wheels lock up. Our car doors open simultaneously as we sprint toward it. I run to the rear door to try to get the passenger compartment open. Myers has the driver’s-side door open, and he’s got his gun pointed at the driver. He screams, “Don’t you fucking move!”

  The rear door is locked, and I pound on the door. “Jazz! I’m here, baby! We’re gonna get you out!” I run around to the side, where Myers and Newton have the driver on the street, lying on his stomach. Newton reaches down, cuffs him with plastic strips, and kicks him over on his side. Myers drops to a knee and puts his gun to the man’s chin. “Where’s the girl, you fucking asshole?”

  I take a step toward them and stop cold. It’s not him. Jesus, it’s not Bridges. I look back at the van, then back at the man. “What the fuck? Is he inside or something?”

  Myers looks up. “This isn’t the guy?”

  “No. It’s not him.”

  Myers waves his gun toward the van, and Newton and I advance slowly toward the driver’s door, weapons raised. I step inside and peer into the back. It’s nearly empty; there’s nothing more than a handful of packages in a jumble, toppled after the spin. “She’s not here. It’s just boxes.”

  Myers looks down at the driver. “Then what the fuck is he doing with Bridges’s phone?” The driver, a skinny kid about twenty years old, is trembling, panicked out of his mind. “Jesus,” Myers says. “He wet himself.”

  A wet spot spreads down the driver’s leg.

  I turn away. “He doesn’t know anything,” I say. “Dammit!”

  Myers reaches down and picks the man up off the street a few inches by his jacket. “Where’s the fucking phone?”

  “What phone? I don’t have any phone. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The driver breaks into tears. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Myers stares at him a second, then releases him in disgust. “Shit! What’s going on?”

  Exhausted and frustrated, I drop to my knees. I suck in some air, trying to get control of myself. I turn my head to the left. “My God.”

  Myers walks over. “What?”