by Harker Moore
God works in mysterious ways.
The thought brought an anger that shook his human shell—a shadow of the discontent that had driven the Fallen to defiance. The rage of a cog that is all too conscious of the wheel.
He was tired of the present battle. Grateful that he’d succeeded with Samyaza. He had bet on his strength and had won. He could retire from the field with honor, having left the campaign to one much greater than himself.
He returned the sweater to the shelf. Marian was truly lost. The bond that was flesh would soon be broken forever. They could never meet again kind to kind.
But he was ready. Zavebe waited. He must return to her and begin the process that would strip away not her physical blindness but the truer blindness that plagued her. He would send her fully awakened to the place between. Then he would join her to wait together with the others he had sent before. Kasyade, Jeqon, Barakel. Asbeel, Rumel, Penemue. And the others whom Samyaza would awaken before he, too, came in glory to lead them.
With the nose of his gun, Sakura tapped on the door of Lovett’s apartment. He waited. Dead silence. Backing away, with his shoulder down, he rammed the solid expanse of wood. Once, twice. The third thrust caused the door to implode. For an instant he stood in the deserted hallway, waiting for the sound of the falling door to die, for the throbbing in his shoulder to ease.
The dull morning was fading into afternoon, and a weak stream of light reflected through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the loft in pale blue shadow, glinting off the chrome of gym equipment. He stepped in. The living area was a single undivided space. The furnishings were spare and modern, oversize to match the room’s dimensions. The only color or pattern was a pair of matching Orientals on the hard-wood floor.
His eyes made a wide circle, settling on a large black-and-white photograph hung on one of the support walls. It was of a nude woman who seemed to be dancing, her long hair swirling around her in a pale foglike mass. The dead wife? Killed in the auto accident?
From someplace in his mind, he was aware of his feet padding across a section of one of the rugs, then the woodsy knock-knock of his shoes against bare floor. A small kitchen was set to the right. To the left, a squared-off partition. He moved toward it, slowly snaking around its edge, gun drawn between his hands.
The bedroom’s interior was almost in complete darkness, shades blocking the outer windows. The bed was a bloated white mound, too low to the floor for anyone to fit beneath. No closets. A single large chest. A bathroom wedged itself to the side. Pressing against the wall, he flicked the shower curtain with the leveled.38. Empty.
He walked across the living room back toward the kitchen. A small pantry door was fitted against the short wall. He shifted his gun to his right hand and swung the pantry door out. A tunnel of fluid blackness hit him. Instinctively, he stepped back. Listened to the silence. His free hand reached out, connecting with a switch. He flipped the lever. Instantly the space filled with red light. A drying line stretched out over him. Empty metal pans rested on a tiled counter. Bottles of developing fluid lined up in neat rows. A couple of cameras, like abstract sculptures, stood on a shelf. No photographs.
He clicked off the darkroom light, closed the door, and moved out of the kitchen back into the living area. From across the room the glass in the picture frame glinted dully. He moved toward the desk, abutting the back of the sofa. The photograph was a five-by-seven color shot of the same woman in the large black-and-white portrait. In jeans and a sweater, under a bowl of cloudless blue sky, with autumnal forest ablaze behind her, the woman smiled for a camera that clearly loved her. And just inside the frame, the weathered shoulder of a large two-storied home. He turned the frame over and unhinged the back. In a woman’s hand, at the bottom of the photograph, an inscription: In the country.
He set the frame down and opened the center drawer. The usual clutter—pens, pencils, clips. He rummaged through paper but found nothing that could help him. He opened a side drawer.
They were scattered like pieces of a child’s jigsaw puzzle, bright and colorful. All the snapshots were of her, taken that same day, against the backdrop of turning trees. Except for one photograph, taken of a man sitting astride a motorcycle, the shadow of a cap obscuring his face. And in the distance, against a flash of burnished leaves, its name just making it into the frame—Chatwell.
For a long moment he stared into the man’s face, the letters of the town’s name like runes thrown against the ground of his consciousness, the red leaves burning a fire into his brain. He had always known that his soul was bruised by the full force of his life in the city, by the brutality of the work he did. But he also understood that he endured because daily Hanae healed him. It was as simple a fact as he could know. He could not live without her. He opened his jacket and tucked the photos inside his breast pocket.
It was then he noticed it. At eye level, across the wide space of the room, a long screen situated against the wall that ran at a right angle to the kitchen. The screen rested almost flush against the wall. It was surprisingly light and he was able to move it easily. A blind door lay behind it. He raised his.38, reached out, and twisted open the door. Another door stared back. A highly polished steel door, like those fitted for walk-in refrigerated lockers. He reached with his free hand, feeling the door’s resistance. He pulled hard and the grip popped.
Nothing human lay within, and he waited for the thick wall of refrigerated air he’d released to clear. There was shelving on either side of the locker. Boxes wrapped in freezer paper lined the metallic racks. Beyond, to the rear and overhead, suspended from aluminum poles were wings. Hung in pairs, they stirred in the dry frigid air.
Hanae opened her eyes to light. An explosion of light that left her exhilarated, fully sensible. Gone was the death-darkness. And with it the crush of crippling fear. She placed her hand over her left breast. Her heart moved in a safe, slow, and steady rhythm. She counted the measured beats, the accented-unaccented syllables, and numbered her pulse against her fingertips. How easily her breaths came now. Her chest, a gentle sea of rising and falling inhalations and exhalations.
She closed her lids. The light remained, but she was no more. Where once there had been Hanae, a distinct and unique separateness, there was Kami. No longer alone, a thing apart, but in the way of Shinto, part of the pure energy of all things. At one with the cushion upon which she sat, at one with the fire and the floor. Joined to the walls and the door of the room so that they ceased to form a prison against her. And in that same instant, joined to Jimmy. One with her husband in a completeness that her madness had almost caused her to forget.
But he would not forget. Nor would he forsake her. She felt a smile come to her lips and savored the joy that brought it. For she understood that beyond her confidence in the absolute goodness of his heart and mind, she could offer Jimmy the gift of time. Time to find her. It was up to her to remain safe until he did.
She had returned to the bed when she heard a small noise from across the room. The sound of the door opening, and then the soft padding of the flesh of his feet against the floor.
“Touch me … ,” Adrian said, taking her hands in his. “Like before.”
The skin of his face was as smooth as she remembered. But the planes were sharper now, so only the bone of his skull was left to define him. The eyes had fallen deeper into their sockets.
“You are thinner,” she said, withdrawing her hands, making her voice calm.
“I have little appetite for food.” He laughed then. And she thought the sound, like the feel of him, bore an acuter thinness, emanating from some airless place, resonating now through flesh as fragile as rice paper, bone as brittle as glass. There existed now an uncharacteristic emptiness that was not there before, and it seemed to her that he was in the process of slowly dissolving so that any moment he would simply cease to exist.
“Body and soul are one,” she said. “You cannot starve one and not starve the other.”
“What about Buddh
ist monks who fast for days?” He lowered himself to the edge of the bed. She felt the mattress give with his weight. A wave of wet warmth hit her, and she realized that he, too, was naked.
“They feed on spiritual food.”
“Oh, Hanae … ,” he whispered, bending over so that his chest rubbed against her breasts, his thigh against her thigh. “This body, this soul, you speak of, they are not one, but enemies who war.”
“Adrian, why?” Her voice kept gentle, without accusation. “Why are you doing this?”
“This is not meant to hurt you.”
“Taking me from my home hurts me, Adrian. This hurts me….” She turned her head away. Hard, this was hard. “Taiko …”
“Drugged. He will be all right.”
She turned back. “And Jimmy?”
“A most worthy adversary. But he cannot win.”
Then like a dark star piercing the landscape of light, the truth came. And she understood. Understood at last exactly who this man was. Understood how carefully she must walk this dangerous path she had set for herself. How precious the gift of time she was offering Jimmy.
Willie got off the elevator and walked down the hospital hallway on her way to Michael’s room. She had finally been discharged after her early-morning go-round with the doctors. She would never have stood for the delay, but she’d fallen asleep in her room, waiting for the paperwork to be ready.
She’d be a fool to deny that she’d needed the sleep. Yesterday’s ordeal was not something you simply shrugged off, and Delia Johnson’s earlier visit had turned into a detailed questioning that had further exhausted her. But that had been hours ago. Why hadn’t Jimmy called since? Surely, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to remove him from the investigation.
Well, she’d be at headquarters soon enough. Just a quick trip to the apartment for a shower and fresh clothes. Maybe this guy was ready to quit, but she wouldn’t bank on it. And she wanted him more than ever now, wanted to get at the origins of that fallen-angel fantasy. It was hard to express the frustration she felt, having had him right in front of her. At least she’d survived the experience. And Michael had survived. A miracle, she’d told Jimmy. Miracle was an understatement.
Michael had come through with no apparent damage to his heart. But it was not his heart she was worried about now. An equally powerful attack had been waged against his mind.
The door was half open and she knocked softly, not really expecting an answer. For a moment she noted that Detective Rozelli was no longer in the hall, but as quickly the thought ebbed.
“It’s me, Michael.” She walked in and crossed to the bed. Awake, he didn’t turn to her. His continued unresponsiveness was not a very good sign.
“Willie …”
She jerked around. He stood in the shadows behind her. “God, you scared me, Jimmy.”
“I went to your room … came to see if you were here.”
“What’s wrong?” He looked terrible. The mask that he wore in place of his face actually made her fear him.
“He’s got Hanae.”
Her heart lurched in instant comprehension. “How …?”
He shook his head, denying time for any explanation. “I think he’s taken her to this house upstate.” He handed her a photo. “I’m headed up there now.” He took the picture back.
“What can I do?”
“I need a search of the property records of Orange County.”
“You’ve got a name?”
“Adrian Lovett,” he said. “Wife, Marian. Maiden name Chandler. The title could be filed under that.”
Or this house might be rented or belong to a friend. But she didn’t say it aloud.
“I left my badge for McCauley,” he told her now. “You’re the only one who knows about Hanae.”
“God, Jimmy. You need backup.”
“No.” He was adamant. “That’ll take too much time. Besides, there’s no real proof that he has her.”
She didn’t argue. There was danger the mask might shatter and leave nothing at all of her friend.
He was leaving. She saw him throw a last look at Michael.
“Call me on my cell phone,” he said, “as soon as you nail the location.”
“I will.” She wanted to say more, but his footsteps were already in the hall. She stood shell-shocked listening to them recede.
Michael hadn’t moved and she wondered if he’d understood or even heard anything that Jimmy had said. She went to the bed. His eyes shifted, and for the first time they focused on her face. But not her gaze. Her eyes, he still avoided. But he spoke. One word. Phaos. She thought it might be Greek. His glance, never fully captured, slipped away.
“Are you warm enough, Zavebe?”
He no longer called her Hanae but used her angel name. Her angel name. He had spoken of death and rebirth. Of flesh and spirit. Heaven and Hell. Of awakening, not killing. How he’d craved understanding. How he’d wished her husband and the others could have clearly seen his path. And he’d spoken, too, of remorse for the priest who’d had to pay for his perceived sins. But such was the war. The war against the Ineffable One. On and on he’d spoken, spiraling off into another language. His voice now a bell, harmonious and soothing, then a loud and urgent drum. And finally a reed. Mystical and hollow. Adrian Lovett. The angel Gadriel. Jimmy’s serial killer.
She understood now how he’d arranged to meet her, following first Jimmy to their apartment, then later her to Ms. Nguyen’s studio, where he pretended to have been in class from the start. He was not a Web designer, as he had said, but a photographer whose wife had been killed in a horrible accident. There was no son. The boy on the phone was the nephew of a neighbor, bribed with the price of a video game. It was all a tissue of lies. The great irony, he said, was that Zavebe should be trapped in the body of the wife of James Sakura.
He brought his lips close to her ear now. “I asked if you were warm, Zavebe.”
She nodded. “Yes …”
“I want to do nothing but please you.” He brought his hand back into the water, sliding the sponge across the nape of her neck, down the ridges of her spine. Then over her shoulders, around the circles of her breasts. The white-flower smell of soap filling her lungs. Then he bent and kissed one nipple, and she felt it grow inside his mouth. Her heart cried out, but there was no place to hide her shame. She thought of misogi, the Shinto exercise of cleansing, how the act of bathing became a spiritual rite of purification. But not this, not this horror, this obscenity. In the still, unmoving water of the porcelain tub, she was defiled.
He sighed, lifting his head. “How sweet this human flesh. I shall miss it.”
“Then do not leave it.” Her voice was not her own.
“I am finished here.” The bath stirred around her. “You and I go to greater glory.”
“Wait….” She found his hand under the water. “It is but a short time now,” she said, placing the flat of his palm against her abdomen where the child grew. “Wait until after,” she whispered, bringing her mouth close to his. “And we enjoy this flesh awhile longer.”
He laughed softly, and she tasted his breath in the moment before his mouth closed over hers. Almost a chaste kiss. Then his hands were at her shoulders, pushing her gently back into the water. Her hair unwinding, floating outward. His fingers on the point where her sternum began, at the center of her chest, submerging her face, her mouth swallowing the wet pooling inside her, her nostrils flaring, sucking moist air.
Yesterday’s sleet had returned. The trees patterned with ice. The Hudson, a silver ribbon on the right, could be glimpsed now and then from the highway. Sakura saw nothing but the road ahead, moving as fast as he could in this weather, blanking the scenery along with every image that he’d banned from his brain.
The force of the sleet increased, little needles attacking his wind-shield. He looked out at his surroundings now, but visibility was limited. A white sky pressed the trees. He could not see the river.
Willie hadn’t called. He gla
nced at the cell phone, which was lying with the photographs on the passenger seat beside him. He had disciplined his mind, but doubt was hammering the borders. He turned on the radio, scanning for a station that played his music.
The phone rang.
“Sakura.” He shut off the radio.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy.” Willie’s voice. “I called Orange and the surrounding counties. None of them liked the idea of giving out information on the phone. I had to pull an FBI …” Her voice petered out.
“And …?” He knew the answer.
“Nothing. No listing for Adrian or Marian Lovett. Or Marian Chandler either. I’m sorry,” she said again. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Still on the thruway.”
“Let me call Kelly. Maybe he can coordinate something with the locals. They might even be able to help locate this guy. Like I said before, I think Lovett’s finished. He’ll suicide, Jimmy….”
The rest went unspoken. He would kill Hanae first. “Okay,” he finally agreed, “call Kelly.”
A lotus in an uncertain wind, Hanae sat, shivering in the porcelain tub, water noisily draining. In the room no other sound. Legs drawn up, hands crossed over her breasts, she tried to quell her shaking. Tears mixed and fell with the beads of water that ran down from her face. She must regain control. She could survive her shame. What mattered was that she was still alive, still making time for Jimmy. Her shivering turned to rocking, a motion instinctive that seemed to calm. She stopped and returned to her practiced breathing.
Adrian’s footsteps returning, bare skin spanking tile. She kept her breathing even, kept the air from rising in a sound of fear from her throat.
“This shell you inhabit is beautiful, but it masks a greater splendor.” He had knelt at the side of the tub, his voice at her level. His finger made a gentle circle at the base of her neck. “You are afraid,” he said, “but only because you cannot remember.” His hands reached to remove hers from where they clasped her shoulders. He began to stroke her breasts.